


Ashes Below the Moon

by Escalus



Series: The Wolves at War - A Teen Wolf/Game of Thrones Fusion [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Animal Death, Arranged Marriage, Betrayal, Cruelty, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intrigue, M/M, Medical Conditions, Murder, POV Multiple, Revenge, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-01-25 21:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12542100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escalus/pseuds/Escalus
Summary: Revenge.  Power.  Desire.   Fear.   These are the things that make the great stories.   Sometimes they are the domain of great nobles and powerful families, sometimes it is the story of two families in an unimportant village.   With the Long Summer ending and the War of Five Kings approaching, another story starts far from the seats of the Great Houses.   While Kings and Queens play their games, those beneath them can see their very lives torn away from them.  How do you survive when you're just a helpless lad from a small village named Beacon Hills in the North.  Do you perish as the nameless dead on some pointless battlefield?  Or do you rise?





	1. Winter is Coming (Part 1)

**Author's Note:**

> This story places the story and characters of Teen Wolf in the Game of Thrones world. It adapts the story line to the rules of that world. The story must necessarily begin with the newcomers, but characters from both shows will appear and be important to the plot. Chapters will indicate approximately what episode of the Game of Thrones television show the action takes place in. The ratings and warnings and tags will change as the story changes. Please enjoy!
> 
> I own neither the characters or plots from Teen Wolf or Game of Thrones. This was created for my own and others' enjoyment.

**Scott**

Night had slithered out from under the eaves of the Wolfswood and surrounded the keep like some gargantuan and misshapen snake. The full moon rose over the nearby waters of the Bay of Ice, scattering the stars before it. The sky made Scott McCall feel small and unimportant as he checked to see that the stables were shut and bolted. It was his task to secure the heavy and iron bound doors, for though wolves might not try to eat the horses until they were starving, there were men who would certainly try to steal them. He had already fed the dogs and closed down the kennel.

He passed through the door into the thatched lean-to shed that was nestled between the stables and the kennels and had served as his home for the last three months. It was nice enough, Scott supposed. These three buildings had been built against the outer wall of the shell keep and lee of the prevailing winds from the ocean. It would keep all but the worst storms off the horses and the dogs. And him, Scott added, though he wasn’t sure that it had occurred to Ser Whittemore that this would be an added benefit.

Still, the room was his for as long as he did good work, and that’s what he intended to do. He was sixteen now, a man grown, and that meant it was time for him to earn his own bread. His mother hadn’t agreed; she had argued with him that he could stay and help her with her midwifery. She was worried about him living alone; she was terrified he might have an attack and no one would be able to help him.

Scott bent down and washed his face in the tepid water that was left in the bowl. Then he took the single candle that and regarded the brazier by his cot. Even though there was a sharp chill in the air, it was still summer, so he wouldn’t bother wasting charcoal tonight. If he used it too liberally, he wouldn’t have enough for himself and the animals until the next moon. Instead, he would use the candle to burn the dried moonflower in its grated basked. Wincing in anticipation, he lit it on fire and inhaled the fumes. Sometimes, the treatment caused a coughing fit, but it was the only treatment for his lungs that his mother and Maester Alan knew. 

He lay down on the cot after he had pinched the candle out, his lungs burning with the smoke from the moonflowers, anxious for the pain in his throat and tightness in his chest to pass. He always did feel a little better after using the herbs, and he had promised his mother he would do it every night, no matter how tired he got with his duties. 

Scott’s eyes had almost drifted close when a sound jerked him to wakefulness. Something disturbed the night’s silence outside his hut. It could be an animal. It could be a brigand. It could be one of Ser Whittemore’s men, needing a mount. He sat up and reached for a club that hung on the wall, thinking it was better to be safe than sorry. It was a full moon that night, so he decided not to waste time trying to light a candle. He slid his feet into the boots he kept by the bed and crept to the doorway. Gritting his teeth, he raised the club and opened the door.

“Ahhhh! Stiles, what in the Seven Hells are you are doing?” 

“I came to get you! Were you going to club me?” Stiles had a lantern, hooded closed, in one hand. The other one he had thrown up defensively. 

“I thought you were a bandit!” Scott lowered the club. “Why are you here this late?”

“My father’s come to roust Ser Whittemore’s household.” Stiles got that sly look on his face. “You’ll never guess what a merchant said he came across on the road from Deepwood Motte!” 

Scott watched Stiles, who was obviously expecting him to make an attempt at a guess. “I don’t know.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Wildlings! Father is going to lead the knights to track them down and drive them away, if it be real. We should absolutely go.”

“ _You_ should absolutely go.” Scott replied. “I’m going to get the horses ready for Ser David and Ser Jackson.” 

“Come on! You’re the one who complains nothing ever happens in this town.” 

“Well, yes, but that’s beside the point,” Scott considered as he walked toward the stables. “We’re not children any longer. I’m the kennel master for the Whittemores, but only as long as they’re satisfied with my work. So, I should be doing what I’m supposed to be doing, and you should be with your father, as a squire should be.”

This took the wind out of Stiles’ enthusiasm. “Well, he sent me to get the horses ready, but he doesn’t want me to go with them when they head out.” 

Scott didn’t know what to say; things like this always bothered Stiles. Ser Noah had been but a hedge knight for a long time, but when the Hales had perished and the land passed to House Argent, he had become a sworn sword to that house, tasked with maintaining peace within the village of Beacon Hills. Ser Noah answered to Ser David Whittemore, a landed knight who acted as steward for House Argent, whose main holdings lay far to the south in the Westerlands. 

It was only to be expected that Stiles would follow in his father’s footsteps, but as Stiles had grown both he and his father faced the possibility that Stiles might never be knighted. The younger man was middling in sword play, could barely ride a horse without falling off, and was a terrible shot with a bow. Stiles’ skills lay in the learning of things, not only from books but from the study of people. But that wasn’t a skill much respected in either a hedge knight or a sworn sword. 

Maester Alan always told Scott that if Stiles had been Ser Noah’s second son, he would have recommended that he travel to the Citadel and forge his own chain as a maester, but the custom of the land was that the oldest son should follow in the footsteps of the father, and since the death of Stiles’ mother so long ago, Ser Noah was unlikely to marry again, and he was not the type of man to father a bastard. Stiles, ever concerned with his father’s well-being and good opinion, had shown little inclination to defy the custom, especially since he would end his father’s line if he forged a chain.

The weight of their relationships with their fathers had bonded Scott and Stiles together after they had met as children. Stiles frequently felt like a burden upon his father for his lack of skill at both arms and chivalrous comportment and because he blamed himself for his mother’s death. Scott didn’t know his own father very well; he was a captain of one of the ships in the King’s navy. He hadn’t seen him for more than a single day a year for nearly a decade. 

They worked together in the night air to open up the stable and ready the horses. Scott had been taught how to saddle them because part of his responsibilities was to keep them exercised, while Stiles had learned to ride as part of his training. Once finished, they led the dozen horses out to the front of the keep. Most of the horses were for men-at-arms, as there were only five knights in Beacon Hills. To outsiders, it was a small village on the edge of the Wolfswood near Sea Dragon Point. The North followed the Old Ways and the Old Gods; there weren’t many knights among them. Even more so, when the Hales had ruled this land, their obedience to the Old Ways had been even stricter than the norm, as they were descendants of the Warg King. They had never accepted a knight into their service. 

In the light of torches Ser Noah and Ser David were in close consultation at the front gates of the keep. “Must it be done in the dark?” Ser David complained. 

“In these lands, they’ll not travel during the day. Most likely, they’ll find some woodsman’s hut or some unprotected farm, kill the family that lives in it, and hide throughout the day.” Ser Noah might have only been trained as a sell-sword, but when it came to keeping the peace, it was said that even Lord Glover listened to his words. “They’ll be easier to find at night; they can’t see any better than we can.”

“We don’t even know if the merchant’s tale is true!”

Ser Noah set his face in a way that Scott and Stiles knew well. Stiles’ father thought the other knight a fool, but it would not be proper to make that clear with words. Ser David had pretensions of becoming greater than he was, so he barely dealt with the common folk of the lands he held in trust, let alone understood their ways. He didn't know any merchants personally and saw no reason to trust them. “I’ve met this man and his family many times; he’s not prone to fancy or to ungrounded fears. If he says he saw wildlings, then it is worth checking out.”

It might have been interesting to hear what Ser Noah’s exact plans were, but unfortunately for Scott Ser David’s son, Ser Jackson came up to the pair of them. He must have been asleep, for he was crabby and disheveled. “It’s about time the horses were brought,” he sneered at Scott and Stiles in a voice too low for the others to hear. “What’s the matter, Stiles? Did it take too long for the dog boy to get you off with his mouth?” 

Even though Ser Jackson was the same age as Scott and Stiles, he held the same rank as Ser Noah, which meant that the only way for Ser Noah could properly avenge such an insult to his son would be to challenge Ser Jackson to a duel. That would only end badly, so Scott and Stiles suffered it in silence.

Ser Jackson was a powerful knight; he was far more than naturally talented. Even the rough Northern men recognized him as a prodigy when compared to other warriors in these lands. He was the best swordsman amongst all the banners of House Glover. He was one of the finest jousters most of the Northern lords had ever seen, even though above the Neck that skill was often mocked. He excelled in riding, in archery, in hunting, in every martial pursuit. Scott had learned why this was within a month of becoming the kennel master at the Whittemore’s Keep. Ser Jackson trained every day for hours, far more than any knight about which even Stiles had ever heard. His father and mother could barely get the young knight to stop long enough to eat, and he was known to strike servants who interrupted him while he was practicing.

Unfortunately, for some strange reason, Stiles’ lack of skills in terms of knighthood offended Ser Jackson to the point where he took every chance to cruelly mock Stiles. As a squire, Stiles had no right to offer any other response but meekly listen, though on several occasions his sharp tongue had lashed back. Every time that happened, Ser Noah had promised Ser Jackson and Ser David that he would punish his son, and he did, though the punishment had always been light.

As for his father’s kennel keeper, Scott wasn’t sure that Ser Jackson actually knew his name. When he deigned to talk to him at all, it was to give him orders about the hounds or the horses. After the knight had realized he was friends with Stiles, the orders had come laced with insults more often than not. Ser Jackson indulged in the same disdain for the Dornish that the rest of the Seven Kingdoms did; Dornishmen were held to be sexually licentious if not perverted. Travelers held that in Dorne, the people had no problem with men being with men or women being with women, and that they raised bastards alongside their trueborn children. 

Scott never pointed out to Ser Jackson that he, too, had been born and raised in the North. He had never even been to Dorne; while his mother had been born near Sunspear, his father had brought them here to the cold forests at the invitation of Lady Hale after Robert’s Rebellion. The lady had given Scott’s father a beautiful home in Beacon Hills, where his mother still lived. 

Stiles opened his mouth to say something that might have been witty in response to the knight’s taunt, but his own father appeared and put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “We should get moving, Ser Jackson. As much light as the full moon gives us, it’ll still be hard riding.” 

As they mounted, Ser Noah turned to his son. “And you, stay near the keep and the village.” 

“Father…” Stiles protested. He could see Ser Jackson smirking at him as he mounted his horse.

“Do as I say, Stiles.” His father interfered. “You’re needed here.” 

The group of knights and men-at-arms rode off into the woods with no more discussion. As slow as they would have to go at night, they would reach the road to the seat of House Glover in a little under ten minutes. Stiles watched their lanterns disappear among the trees, a sour look upon his face.

“It’s important what he wants you to do, Stiles,” Scott said, trying to cheer him up. “He wants you to protect the villagers.” 

“He wants,” Stiles replied bitterly, “to conceal the fact that I’m terrible at being a knight from the others. Well, come on then.”

“Where are we going?” Scott asked. This was how it always had been. He was so used to going with Stiles on adventures, it no longer occurred to him that he didn’t have to go anywhere.

“You heard my father, we need to patrol the keep and the village. We should get to the keep right away.” Stiles put a hand on his sword and stalked off down the road. 

Scott looked between his friend and the shell keep they were standing next to. If they had to leave to go to the keep that meant …

“No! Stiles, no! People say that place is haunted!” Scott moved to catch up with him anyway. “Your father meant this keep not the ruined fortress!”

“He did not specify which one!” Stiles called back. “Are you coming or not?” 

“Of course I’ll come.” Even though the whole idea of going there was dangerously close to addled. If there were actually wildlings out there, the ruins of Hale House would be one of the best places for them to take shelter in. But Scott couldn’t possibly let his friend go there by himself as much as the idea scared him. He knew Stiles; he knew that his friend was only doing this to prove his worth to his father. Scott could understand that.

It was just that no one in the village went near the burnt-timber wreck that was Hale House; no one pilfered wood from its overgrown ramparts. It had been there forever; it was one of the few fortresses that had existed even before great Winterfell. When the Winter Kings of House Stark had defeated the Warg King and his allies among the Children of the Forest so long ago, they had put the King, his sons, and their beloved animals to death, but they had spared the King’s daughters and married them. All save one. 

Proud and defiant, though her name had long since been lost to history, she had barricaded herself within a wooden fortress of her people and threatened to throw herself into the sea if a Stark dared to touch her. Impressed by her ferocity, the Starks had offered her lands and a lordship as long as she and all her descendants remained loyal to the Winter Kings. She accepted, rather than see her people’s legacy vanish, and thus the House of Hale had been born. The Hale House was that very same fortress; it still overlooked the Bay of Ice, and the village of Beacon Hills grew up around it.

In summer, the Hale lands were just another small fife pledged to House Glover, who in turn swore to serve the Starks, with nothing but their ancient heritage to mark the house as special. It was only during winter, when the Bay of Ice became exactly that, that Beacon Hills rose in importance. It was a port, narrow and awkward to navigate, but it was the only port on the bay that didn’t freeze even in the harshest of winters. 

Six years ago, weeks after the marriage of one of Lady Talia’s children to a noble woman from the south, a fire had consumed the ancient fortress. Every single member of the family had perished in the blaze, except for the southern lady and her Hale husband. Commoners like Scott didn’t know what exactly had occurred, but it had to have been sordid. The sole remaining Hale had taken the Black, which meant the lady’s house – House Argent of the Lockwood, sworn to House Lannister -- came into possession of the lands that once belonged to the Hales. 

Such things hadn’t mattered much to the children of Beacon Hills. All they knew was the strange fascination they held for the skeleton of burnt timbers. Stories of ghosts and strange lights had sprung up almost immediately, and mothers warned their children to stay away from it. Few adults traveled there, even though it was easy to find set on a wooded cliff overlooking the village and its harbor.

This vine-choked manse was where Stiles was heading, and Scott followed dutifully right behind him, cursing himself for doing so. Scott had never seen a ghost, and the truth was he didn’t much care to. 

“Stiles?” He called out. He was glad he had breathed the moonflower earlier. He was nervous, and they were moving quickly. Such things could trigger an attack on his weak lungs. 

“Yes, friend of mine?” Stiles called back. 

“What exactly is your plan if we do find the wildlings?” 

Stiles stopped and looked back. “I hadn’t actually thought about that.”

“I mean, you have a sword, but I only have a club.” Scott didn’t add that Stiles wasn’t that good with the sword; that would be cruel. “And we only have one lantern.”

Stiles’ face was illuminated by the light from the lantern. “Scott, you have to have faith in yourself and you have to have faith in me. If we find the wildlings, we’ll just go get my father and the other knights. We’re not going to fight them ourselves.”

“You hope we’ll not have to fight them.” Scott pointed out. He watched the ruined fortress appear in the middle of the night. “You rely on hope a lot don’t you?” 

“I do,” Stiles replied. He scratched at his head. “Though, right now, I’m not quite sure how to get into this place.” 

“We’ve been here before!”

“During the daylight, and we didn’t actually go inside,” Stiles remarked with a grin obscured by shadows. “You go this way and I’ll go that way.” 

Scott stopped dead in his tracks. Before he could lodge a protest, Stiles had already run off in that direction with the only lantern. He looked up into the sky and shook his head. He’d go around once, and then he’d go home. 

The main entrance to the old Hale House had collapsed into burnt pillars and twisted metal hinges, making it impassable, but there should have been enough damage done somewhere that would allow access. Scott tried to walk carefully in the dark. Even with his only light being the full moon, it shouldn’t have been hard to find a hole in the great wall.

Soon enough, Scott was pushing his way through a thicket that had grown up right next to the wall, when he realized – and he had almost missed it in the dim light – that the thicket extended past where the wall should begin. Before he could raise his voice to share in his discovery, he heard a horn sound off in the distance. He recognized it; it was Ser Noah’s horn. 

“Stiles!” Scott called out. “Stiles! Look what I found!” There was no answer. The ruins of Hale House were huge; Stiles might not have been able to hear his call and he most certainly heard the horn. 

There was movement in the thicket, and if it were Stiles, he would have answered Scott's call. Scott felt his breath stick in his throat. He had been so excited to find an entrance to the keep that he had forgotten why they were out there in the first place. He should have stayed back at the Whittemore’s keep. His eyes strained against the dim light of the full moon. He took a few steps forward into the entranced formed by the collapsed wall.

His mother would have grabbed him by the ear and spanked him by this point. This was foolish and dangerous. He turned around to leave only to be confronted by an enormous wolf. 

The first thought that went through his mind seemed completely out of place: _What beautiful eyes._ Then the wolf charged. He was so overcome with the transformation of wonder into terror that he never even raised the club as the wolf knocked him down on the ground. A scream wedged itself behind his lungs. No one would come to help him. He was going to be killed.

But the wolf did not kill him. Instead it stood over him with purpose, growling softly as if examining him. It bent down and grabbed at his right arm; the thin cloth of his tunic wouldn’t protect him much but the wolf’s jaws didn’t break the skin. It grabbed and shook his arm until he let go of the club. Scott tried to scramble back through the bushes, but the animal followed him up. 

Scott could barely think as he tried to escape. He knew animals; he was good with them and that was why Maester Alan had convinced Ser David that he should bring Scott on as kennel master. But now all that knowledge ran like water between his fingers. All he could hear was the growl; all he could see was the fangs. 

The wolf, confusingly, leapt off of him and to one side, and Scott flipped over to protect his vulnerable neck and belly. He knew that it wouldn’t do much good if the beast really wanted to kill him, but he had to do something. He started crawling through the thicket, his hands raw from grabbing at thorny plants, his breath coming in gasps. He prayed to the Seven that he wouldn’t have an attack right then.

He nearly emptied his bowels when he felt the wolf’s hot breath on the back of his neck. Its jaws locked around his spine, but the teeth didn’t break his skin. It held him like a hunter’s well-trained hound could pick up a pheasant without tearing it apart. Scott froze where he was in panic, but the animal tugged on him, as if urging him to crawl in a certain direction. When he resisted, the animal growled through his teeth, the sound vibrating his very bones. He relented.

Scott dragged himself through the thicket and into the opening in the walls of Hale House, the wolf’s mouth always on his neck, tolerating no hesitation. When he could focus enough beyond the relentless tugging on his flesh and his own rabbit-fast pulse, he wondered what type of wolf would do such a thing like this. 

Soon though, he was pulled through a door that was more or less intact. The gaping hole in the roof let the moon peak through, and there was a small campfire set in the middle of the room. If the wind off the bay had been less strong, he and Stiles might have seen the telltale wisps of smoke in the sky. The wolf stopped pulling him, and Scott dared to look up. 

Highlighted by the small fire, a man sat across from him. He was taller than Scott, well-built, dressed in furs and rough travelling clothes. They weren’t the style for even the rugged Northerners; this man had to be one of the wildlings. To finally see one was terrifying, and this one did not even give the slightest impression that he was harmless. He had a pair of hand axes by his side, he was muscular though not huge, the left side of his face was burned from jawline to crown, and his eyes were rolled up into his head, unseeing. 

Scott could not comprehend what was going on until the wolf let go of his neck and retreated. Scott scrambled to his knees, breathing heavily. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t dead. 

“Who are you, boy?” Scott had expected the man’s voice to be rough and wild, but it wasn’t. It was smooth and practiced, like the voice of one of those wandering singers that sometimes stopped in town. It belonged to some lord, not a crazed raider from beyond the Wall. The man’s eyes no longer rolled up into his head; blue eyes, piercing and intelligent, studied him. 

Scott stared dumbfounded at him. He glanced behind him to see the wolf watching him from the corner of the room, but the wolf seemed more animal-like now. 

“I asked you a question. You aren’t mute, are you?” The wildling clicked his tongue. “It would be a pity if I came all this way and snagged myself a mute.” 

“N-n-n-no,” Scott swallowed. “No, I’m not a mute.” 

The man tilted his burned face to the side, his eye shining in the light of the campfire. He gestured with one hand. “Go on.” 

“My name’s Scott.” He swallowed. He didn’t know what this man wanted. Scott just wanted to go back to the keep, from where he would never stir again, no matter what Stiles wanted.

“Well, Scott, thank you for telling me your name, but I’m looking for information that’s a little more useful. Right now, you’re not being useful at all. Useless things, I feed to Black Jenny.” He gestured over to the wolf by the wall. “That’s her; mind telling me something useful?”

Scott glanced over at the wolf. He tried to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m … I’m from Beacon Hills. That’s where you are.” 

“And what, pray tell, do you do in Beacon Hills?”

“I’m the kennel man for Ser Whittemore.” Scott wondered for a moment if he should have lied, but the truth was that he was terribly bad at it and he didn’t want to anger the man with the pet wolf and the hatchets and the burned face when Scott held nothing but quaking fear. 

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.” The man seemed pleased by the response. “To whom is your knight sworn?” 

“He’s sworn to House Argent, who holds these lands in fief to House Glover, who in turn serves Winterfell.” He thought by dropping bigger names, Scott might make the wildling think twice about killing him. Or not. He wished Stiles was here; Stiles knew more about houses and things like that; he was quicker on his feet when dealing with people. Where had Stiles gone?

The man touched a single finger to his chin as if he was thinking. It was completely out of place from all the stories about wildlings Scott had been told. The stories portrayed them as wild and bloodthirsty brutes, taking what they want and destroying the rest. While Scott felt this man was very, very dangerous, he was also … clever. 

“It seems to be your lucky night, Scott of Beacon Hills.” The man said pleasantly, standing up. “I’m going to give you a gift.” He pulled a knife out of its sheath. 

“What type of gift?” Scott asked suspiciously, getting ready to make a run for it. The man suddenly sprang forward and knocked him to the ground. The stranger knew how to fight and, aside from one or two ill-conceived fist-fights with local boys, Scott didn’t.

“You mustn’t try to run while I do this,” the man said. “If you flee, I’ll have Black Jenny hunt you down, and she won’t be very gentle. I’ll be forced to continue on with my original plan.” 

“I … I won’t cause you any trouble.” Scott didn’t know what to do. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Kill you? Oh no! What possible benefit would I get from that? I’m not going to kill you, I’m going to _change_ you.” He knelt down and threatened him with the knife. With the other hand, he shifted Scott so he was lying on his back and placed a knee on his chest. 

“Into what?” Scott croaked. 

“Into something that’s _mine_ , of course,” the man chuckled. “You’re going to help me gain my revenge on House Argent, Scott. A true revenge and righteous.” 

Scott couldn’t talk any more. His lungs were being crushed; his hands tried to lash out and push the man off. 

“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t struggle. You don’t want my hands to slip.” The knife flashed in the firelight and he felt it cut through his tunic. “Lie still, or this could get messy.” The man’s voice was confident and while still sly and painful, there was the edge of violence to it. 

Pain blossomed in his side. Down near his hip, it ached so intense, so sharp, and he was so unprepared that it whited out everything else: the fear that made his jaw clench, the burning in his throat, the way his hands scrabbled at the sooty floor. The man was cutting him, carving into his side, as one would a side of beef. He was doing it deliberately and carefully. Scott thought about pushing up with his legs but that could just force the knife deeper. He could smell his own blood and it made him gag. 

“This will scar, my pet,” the man whispered as he worked. “It is the sigil of my house. It marks you as my servant, so you’ll do what I tell you. You no longer have any choice. After all, if the Argents see this mark, if their servants see it, they’ll kill you no matter what you say to them. They’ll never let anyone of my house live; no matter how many people vouch for you, no matter how innocent you really are, they’ll kill you just to be sure.” 

Scott tried to think straight as the pain tore at his consciousness. He was near to passing out. The man kept whispering to him words of encouragement, as if Scott should be glad of the opportunity for a mad man to make him bleed. When the wildling heated his knife and pressed it to his side, the pain overwhelmed him and he passed out.


	2. Winter is Coming (Part 2)

**Scott**

Scott woke to the sound of birds in the morning. For one single moment of peace, he imagined himself in the hut at the back of the Whittemore Keep. It was time to get up, for he had to run the dogs. It was only when he placed his hands flat on the floor in order to push himself upright that he realized he was lying on the sooty wooden floor of the Hale House.

He cried out as he rolled over, his hip spiking with pain. He look down at his tunic and saw the fabric soaked with his own cold and crusted blood. Pulling it gingerly to the side, he saw a scar, carved and burned into his very flesh. The symbol was not one he recognized. Immediately his thoughts raced to the man who had put it there. There was no sign of the wildling or his great wolf. They were gone as if they had never existed. The only indications that anyone other than Scott had been here were the ashes of the fire.

Groaning, he stood up shakily. He had to get back; he might be missed. The knights might have returned, and he’d need to take care of the horses. He staggered out the door. It was far easier to navigate the Hale ruins under the light of the sun. He thought about stopping at one of the cold streams that flowed toward the sea; he knew he looked like a victim of war.

He hadn’t made it down the side of the cliffs toward the castle when someone called out to him. It was Stiles, urgent and near panicking. He was on one of the horses that had been saddled last night for the knights’ hunt. “Scott!” He cried. He urged the mount onward, riding straight up to his friends. “Oh by the Gods. Scott, are you all right?”

“I’m fine!” He shouted in return. Scott gasped at the pain and immediately had to keep himself from doubling over. “No, no, I’m not fine.”

“What happened to you?” Stiles nearly fell off his horse in his haste. He saw the blood and he grew pale. Guilt etched itself across his eyes. “You’re bleeding.” 

“There … there was a wildling.” For a moment, a voice whispered to him that he should not tell Stiles, that Stiles would tell his father who served House Argent. Scott discarded it; if he couldn’t trust Stiles, there was no point in going home at all. “He had a wolf. He stabbed me. He burned me.” 

“Let me see!” Stiles helped him to sit down by a log. He let out a curse when he saw what was there. “He … he marked you.” 

Scott nodded in shock; moving around made the scar sting more and more. It still hurt so much his head was swimming. “He said that I was his. I don’t know what he meant.” 

“I don’t know either,” Stiles said and then stood up like he had made a decision. “The wound’s been cauterized, so you aren’t going to bleed to death. That means we have to get you to Maester Alan. He’ll make sure you’re okay, and if anyone knows what the sigil means, he would.”

Scott let Stiles haul him up and put him on the horse. It wasn’t difficult since they were working together. He suddenly remember Ser Noah’s horn. “What happened with your father?”

“There were wildlings,” Stiles said, “but they weren’t hiding. They were trying to sneak into town. The knights and the soldiers killed most of them and drove the others off. I … I left you when I heard the horn.” Guilt dropped from Stiles’ eyes to his voice.

Scott reached down and grabbed him by the hand. “You didn’t know …”

“I dragged you out in the middle of the night and some horror from beyond the Wall almost killed you. He almost killed you because I abandoned you to run after my father. That’s what I did.”

The pain in his side had not died down, but he smiled anyway. He didn’t want to see that look on Stiles’ face. “Don’t do it again, friend, and we’ll call it passed.” Stiles did not look convinced, but he mounted up behind Scott and began to ride towards the Whittemore’s keep.

“I’ll never do it again, Scott. I promise.” Promises like that were dangerous to make. 

Scott managed to hang on to the horse as they rode towards the keep. He wasn’t angry with him, even though finding the marauders had been the reason they had gone out in the middle of the night. He had gone to humor Stiles and to make him feel better; Scott hadn’t actually expected to meet a wildling. And if Scott hadn’t expected it, how could he blame Stiles for putting his father’s safety first when he had no idea that Scott was in danger.

On horseback, the keep wasn’t that far away from the Hale House, though the terrain grew difficult away from the road. The newer building was nestled in the midst of thick woods, the trees so old and wide it would make any siege troublesome. They rode straight into the courtyard, the strong walls rising protectively about them. The maester had a room and a workshop off the main courtyard. With a lurch and a shout, Stiles dismounted and banged on that door. 

Most of the people in the city believed that Maester Alan hailed from the Summer Isles; he must have traveled when he was very young before coming to Oldtown and joining the scholars of the Citadel. He had been the Maester of Hale House when it burned, but he had been on a journey to the south when the tragedy occurred. Since maesters were assigned to the land and the castle and not the family, he had come to serve House Argent in the same capacity, assisting their proxy, Ser Whittemore. Everyone in the keep and the village trusted him, for he was never ruffled by trouble; he was never too busy to help; he was never sour at the interruption. That being so, Ser Whittemore left the less appealing matters of ruling the land to him. The maester handled it well, working with Ser Noah comfortably and effectively.

That was how Maester Alan had met Scott. One day, after concluding business with his father, Stiles had asked the maester if he knew how to make someone’s lungs’ stronger. Stiles had long been friends with Scott, but the then-page had lived in mortal fear that Scott would die as his mother had, that his lungs would give out when they were playing amid the hills. There wasn’t much that could be done for such a malady, but the maester had done his best. He had talked Melissa and they had agreed on crushed and burned moonflower as a medicine. 

While treating him, the maester had noticed that Scott had a way with animals and that the lad was friendly and kind. All sorts of beasts tended to like him, so Alan had had the boy come to the castle to help the previous kennel master care for the dogs and the horses and helped him feed the ravens. It helped Scott and his mother. He had even taught Scott the finer points of working with birds, with hounds, and with horses. 

There had once been talk of sending both Scott and Stiles off to the Citadel as well, but that, sadly, had not come to pass. Scott would not leave his mother alone, and he was poor besides. Without his absent father’s intervention, he could ill afford a trip to Oldtown. Captain Rafael had shut it down on one of his infrequent visits; he wanted his family line to continue. Stiles, of course, was expected to be a knight. All these opportunities were long dead, when Stiles pounded on the door. “Sir! Sir! Scott’s been stabbed!”

When the maester opened the door of his rooms, he walked with a casual gait. As usual, he was not flustered. He said calmly but with command. “Help me bring him in and put him on the table.” 

Stiles and Alan each grabbed one of Scott’s arms and helped him inside, carefully. The tenderness of the care sort of made Scott embarrassed. He felt guilty for getting hurt, so he tried to protest feebly. “I’m not bleeding at all. I’ll be fine.”

“I hope you don’t mind if you allow me to judge that for myself.” Alan went to his table and brought back his tools. “Stiles, I believe your father and Ser Robert are in the Great Hall. Please go to them and tell them what has occurred.” 

Stiles swallowed but he did as he was told. He would have to speak to his father and he might have to tell him the truth. If so, it would not go well with him. 

“So, let’s take a look at you.” The maester cut back the tunic carefully – it had been ruined anyway – to examine the wound more closely. Scott lying on the table saw the man’s face twitch and then his hand paused. 

“Do you know it? Do you know what it means?” Scott asked. His curiosity almost overrode the twinges of pain. “The man said this meant I was his.”

Maester Alan went to the door, checked to see if anyone was about, and then shut it firmly. He spoke quickly and with great alarm; the voice caused fear to form in the back of Scott’s stomach. “You must never show this to anyone here, Scott. This is very important. Those who see it as a threat will not believe that you did not gain it on purpose.” He took a basin of water and a few cloths and quickly cleaned the wound. He applied a salve. “This is going to scar, and it will be noticeable. Allow only me to change your bandages.” 

“The wildling said something like that. He said it was the sigil of his house.” Scott tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Which house?”

“It is a secret and ancient sigil of the House of Hale,” the maester explained. “It is the sign of the Warg King. To bear it is an act of rebellion against Winterfell, not that anyone but Meister Luwin would recognize it. But there are other people who _will_.”

“I’m not rebelling against anything!” Scott exclaimed in panic. He didn’t want any of this. 

“I know, I know, but that doesn’t change anything, so you must be careful. You have to keep this from everyone, even your mother, even Ser Noah. Especially, you must keep it from the Whittemores.” Alan worked quickly and efficiently with the bandages to protect and conceal the wound. “I’ll do what I can to cover for you, but you must promise me not to say anything to anyone. Does Stiles know?”

“He knows, but he won’t tell anyone if I ask him.” Of that, Scott was sure. 

“Then ask him,” Alan said, tying the bandages off, “and quickly.”

Almost on cue, the door opened wide to allow Ser Noah and Ser Robert entrance. “How is he?” Ser Noah demanded. Even though Scott was just a stable hand, the knight cared about him as he cared about all the people in Beacon Hills. 

“The wound is shallow I’m glad to say.” Maester Alan’s demeanor returned to its usual serenity. “It’s not infected, so he’ll be able to resume his duties in a day or so.”

“Boy,” Ser Robert grumbled. “What were you thinking?” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” Scott was being absolutely honest about that. If he had his way, he would never go running about in the woods again after dark. 

“Something tells me my squire was behind this,” Ser Noah glared back at Stiles as he entered s well, who wilted under his regard. “But, there are more important things to deal with now. You must tell us how this happened.”

Scott told his tale in part, leaving out everything that strange man had said and everything about his trained wolf. When it was over, his words had painted a picture of a desperate stabbing and a rambling madman. “He said a lot of things that didn’t make any sense, sers. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me.” 

Ser Robert harrumphed. “I’m told that life beyond the Wall drives them all mad.” 

“For my life, I care not what drives them as long as it drives them far away from here. Scott, you should stay here and mend your health. Ser Robert, Ser Jackson and I will go the Hale House to see if we can find this man. I doubt we will, but we should check, none-the-less.” 

“Father?” Stiles asked from behind him.

“Since you’ve cost Ser Robert the use of his kennel master, you can fulfill his duties for the day.” Ser Noah’s voice brooked no dispute. He had displeased his father. “I trust you will still be here when I return.”

Stiles nodded. The knights departed and Scott looked over at him in apology, which Stiles waves off. 

“I am told,” said the maester carefully, “you have seen the wound itself, squire.”

“I have. Do you recognize the sigil?” Stiles had pushed away the hurt caused by his father’s ire away with speed. Nothing invigorated him like a mystery. He pursued them like a starving man pursued food. 

Alan hooded his eyes and he glanced back at Scott. Scott nodded. There was nothing he would not tell this man who was like a brother to him. With the same words and the same extreme caution, Stiles was told about the meaning of the sigil, and Scott filled him in on the other words that the wildling had to say.

Stiles was silent for a few moments. “I agree with Maester Alan. No one can know you have that.”

“Well, I am glad my advice met with your approval, squire.” Alan chuckled and turned back to his work. 

“What do you think?” Scott looked at Stiles, who seemed surprised. “You have your thoughtful face on.”

“The rumor has always been that Lady Katherine and Ser Derek were responsible for the fire.” Stiles always knew all the rumors floating around the town. He always believed that rumors were the cloak that the truth used to keep its face hid. “Lord Glover had asked Lord Stark himself to come here and render judgment over them, but before that could happen, Derek -- I guess he was Lord Hale at that time -- took the Black. Since you can’t be held accountable for what you did before you go to the Wall, there was nothing to be done but let House Argent claim the Hale Lands.” 

Stiles paced about the room, excitedly. “But what if the man you met was another survivor? A Hale that survived the fire and seeks vengeance? He could actually be a warg!” 

“What’s a warg?” Scott asked. He had never read as much as Stiles had. There weren't many books in Beacon Hills; Scott wagered that Stiles had read them all.

“They are men and women who can control animals. Everyone knows that the Hales descended from the Warg King, and their secret sigil proves it. That’s why the wolf didn’t hurt you; it was being controlled by the man you met.”

Scott’s eyes got big. This seemed too fantastic for him. “By the Seven …” 

“I think you two have had enough excitement for one day,” the maester said. “You have chores to take care of for Scott, Stiles, and I think your father will be even angrier if you fail to get them done.”

Scott stood up wincing, but his side felt much better. “Come on, Stiles. The quicker we start, the sooner you can tell me everything else you are thinking.” They headed back towards the front gate to make their way to the stables and the kennels.

**Maester Alan**

Before he had forged the first link of his chain, Alan’s surname was Deaton. He did not know what his family’s original name was; their ancestors had taken that name when they reached Westeros. While his family did originate in the Summer Isles, they had travelled generations ago to Oldtown. Alan had grown up in the shadow of the Citadel, and the scholarly men there had fascinated him. The concept of learning for the sake of learning, to understand for the sake of understanding, thrilled him to no end. He had managed to earn entrance to the citadel. He remembered the day he had left his family, especially his younger sister, who had been seething with disappointment. She had wanted to follow him, but the Citadel did not admit women, even ones as talented as her.

When he had forged enough links, they sent him to the Hale House, a fortress far to the north. At first, he was disappointed with the posting. It was far from any center of culture or power. An entire forest stood between it and Winterfell, the capital of the North. His bitterness was soon washed away. While the Hales may not have been the most powerful family in Westeros, they were one of the oldest. Their lands and lineage were steeped in ancient tradition.

Slowly, he had earned the trust of Lady Talia and her family, and when he had done so they had shared with them all the old history of their family. The family cherished their heritage even as they hid its secrets. In the old days, the wisdom of the Warg King was revered across the land. Nowhere else in the North could he have learned more of the wargs, of the First Men, of the world before the Andals. Others might have sneered because their history wasn’t written down but learned by each leader of the house word by word, but Alan rejoiced at the privilege of listening.

He had spent many an evening with Lady Talia, following her words as she spoke. Through the nights, he had come to love her, though his vow of celibacy would never permit him to act on it. It was not a burden to him; his love for her was not sordid sexual desire; instead, it bordered on worship. So close had they come that she revealed their most well-kept secret: the blood of the Warg King ran true. At least one Hale each generation could use that ancient power to project their very minds into animals. He felt honored to be included in that secret.

Which was why he had been suspicious of Lady Katherine from the first. She had put everyone at ease with her manners, for she was not a fussy, fainting lady of the south, but a fiery spirit. She won the Hales over with her smile and her skill as a hunter coupled with a mind as sharp as her sword. Young Derek had become enraptured of her on a trip to the south; Talia certainly thought it was a good match, though it had not been one she had wanted for her son. To Alan though, her smiles were false, her camaraderie thinly veiled disdain. 

Alan knew more of the south and the Great Game than the Hales, who dealt with each person, commoner and lord alike, fairly and justly. He heard the story of how Kate and Derek had met, and it sounded like a House intrigue to him. He had no proof of it though, so he resolved to watch the woman. He thought he had been subtle in his suspicions, but she must have been watching him back. She must have waited to strike until she could arrange for him to be absent.

He had had few to confide his misgivings too. It was a Northern trait to look down on whispers and gossip, and Talia Hale was no different than the other lords. She would never listen to him unless he had proof, and he had found nothing that would convince her. However, Talia’s younger brother Peter had indeed listened to him, for he was suspicious by nature, and they had resolved to watch her together. They had even made plans.

While Peter concentrated on advising his beloved nephew, Maester Alan looked for any sign of exterior conspiracy. The night of the fire, he had been told that there were strange riders near the southern border by an acquaintance in the woods. He had borrowed a horse and rode south. He found no such riders and his acquaintance he had found murdered. He hurried back to the Hale House to find it engulfed in flames. His own heart felt singed and charred as he stared at a fortress that had stood for thousands of years die, and its great family with it, because he had failed them.

Alan stared at the table where Scott McCall had so recently lain. There was only one person who could have done this. But why? And why now? He had to think. He had to keep the horror of that night locked away where he had sequestered it. It would do no one any good for him to dwell on what couldn’t be changed.

It turned out that the answer would not be hard to find; it flew to present itself on wings of its own. A raven that was not one of his flew in through the door. He knew immediately that it was so. If it had been a raven for him, it would have shown up in the rookery on the roof. 

Still, Alan startled when the raven landed right in front of him. It was not a raven trained by a maester; it had grown up in the wild. He frowned in consternation. “Peter! What have you done?” 

The bird clacked its beak and unfurled its wings to show a very human excitement. Of course, it couldn’t answer, but it conveyed emotions pretty effectively. Peter was there, and he was amused.

“I didn’t pull you out of the fire so you could toss your life away. Why would you come here? Is it for revenge?”

The bird, solemn and direct, nodded once. For anyone not used to it, it would have been menacing.

The maester sighed aggressively. “I didn’t conceal your children so you could endanger them. I did the best I could …” The bird interrupted with an angry squawking. 

“You can’t deny that I did what I could. What I am still doing.” The maester said severely. “Lord Stark could only do so much, but what he could do, he did. If you are patient, a Hale will reclaim these lands eventually. If you are impatient and cause problems, then you will only give Lord Eddard less incentive to see justice done.”

The raven studied him insouciantly. 

“And when I mean acting impatiently, I mean doing things like marking a man who knows nothing of any of this. That was you, wasn’t it? Did you ever stop to think that the young man could be important to others? He could be important to me?”

The raven shook its head slowly. 

“Of course, you didn’t.” The maester was exasperated. “If you want justice done, real justice, not bloody vengeance, than we must play the long game. We must have proof that Lady Katherine started the fire. Derek taking the Black makes him look guilty, and he can no longer speak in his own defense. We have the pieces in play to win; you didn’t need to involve Scott.”

The raven cawed and ruffled its chest feathers. Alan sighed again; that was the closest he was ever going to get to an apology from Peter. 

“Why come here now, Peter? That is what I can’t seem to understand.” 

In answer, the raven hopped over to where Alan kept the bands use to send messages. It picked one up. Alan studied it for a moment. “You know something I don’t. Something is happening, but you don’t know when.”

The raven nodded and dropped the bands in front of him. The intent is plain in the gesture.

“You want me to tell you when it’s happening.” Alan frowned. “I will, but on two conditions. First, you arrange to see me when you can. If you want my help, you’ll tell me what I need to know to help you. Second, you leave that young man out of it. He has nothing to do with this.”

The raven stared at him and nodded, reluctantly. Then, as if a rope snapped, it was a normal raven. Alan knew that Peter had so much rage, so much reason to hate, that he couldn’t really trust him to keep his word. But the maester was willing to try. Even if it meant playing the Great Game.

**Ser Jackson**

Jackson did not like the kennel master. It wasn’t anything personal, of course. After all, he couldn’t quite remember the kennel master’s name.

It wasn’t that the man was Dornish. Jackson employed the slurs that he had heard other people use against the Dornish; they were convenient weapons. He didn’t really know if the kennel master was whore or a virgin; he really didn’t care.

It wasn’t because the kennel master was bad at his job. In fact, in his personal opinion, the man was better at it than the old man whom he had replaced certainly was. The horses were certainly better groomed and the tack better cared for. The dogs didn’t seem to get sick as often. 

No, the reason Jackson did not like the man who looked after his horse was one that confused the knight terribly. It seem that the man did not respect Jackson. The Dornish chose to spend his time with and follow that ridiculous squire. Ser Noah’s son Stiles was a disgrace. He did not take his duties seriously. He did not take his training seriously. He did not take anything seriously, as much as Jackson could perceive. 

Jackson made the effort to become the best knight he could be. He worked with the sword until he couldn’t lift his arms. He worked with the lance and horse until he could barely walk. He practiced archery until his fingers bled. This work paid off, and yet this man, in the service of a landed knight and regent of the territory, chose to spend his off hours with a squire who did not only not how to do what a squire was supposed to do, but did not even know his place.

It was insulting.

Jackson slammed the sword into the practice dummy in frustration. What’s worse, Ser Noah took his son’s obnoxious behavior as something endearing, rather than something that should be trained out of him. He didn’t care that he was Ser Noah’s only son. The other knight was still young; he could marry once again and have a son worthy of his mantle, and Stiles could be sent off to read pointless books in a pointless building far away from Jackson.

Take the evening three nights ago. Instead of doing what he was supposed to do, the squire had taken his friend out in the middle of the forest and gotten him stabbed by a wildling. The Dornish was lucky he wasn’t dead; he should be furious that Stiles’ foolery had nearly gotten him killed. Instead, they were still as thick as thieves.

Jackson delivered a particularly violent jab into the dummy.

Jackson was enraged that Stiles had not been with his father. He should have had to fight with the knights and the men at arms rather than running off and getting into trouble and then being coddled like the failure he was. Jackson remembered that night. He had rode off his father and Ser Noah and some men at arms and confronted the wildlings near the city. It was what a knight was supposed to do. 

Jackson hit the dummy again.

The wildlings were no true warriors. Jackson thought that most Northerners didn’t know how to fight like a knight, but they were fierce and disciplined. These men and women were half-crazed from their lives beyond the Wall. They were all rage and no finesse. How did they think they would be able to take on well-armed and trained men? 

Jackson hit the dummy harder. He could feel the sting in the palm of his hand. 

He hadn’t been trained to fight women. Jackson hadn’t even realized that fighting a woman was a possibility. She had a spear and she had lunged at him. She was graceless and clumsy but she was looking to skewer him. She was looking to kill him.

Jackson sank the blade into the dummy so deep it was wrenched from his hand. He cried out in pain.

She was going to kill him, so he killed her first. It shouldn’t be a problem for him. Ser Noah had killed one. His father had killed one. The men at arms killed two more between them. It was a wildling, untamed and dangerous, and she was going to kill him.

Jackson studied the hand. It was red from the blows he had been giving the practice dummy. 

Jackson shuddered. Killing the woman had been easy. It was like practice with a clumsy child; she telegraphed her blow, he slid inside her reach and drove the sword in. He could do the move in his sleep. But …

The wildling woman was dead. He’d killed someone. He hadn’t realized it would be like that. He hadn’t realized it would feel like that. She was alive and after him one moment, and then quiet on the ground the next. 

Jackson rubbed at his face with his hand, before he looked around quickly. No one should see him this upset. He had done his duty. He had done what a knight should. Scorning himself, he took the sword and yanked it out of the dummy.

He was still staring at it when his father shouted his name, jarring him from his reverie. He looked around and saw Ser David and the maester coming toward him. The maester was calm and serene as he always looked. His father on the other hand was nearly dancing a jig in anticipation. 

Jackson clad himself in his usual armor: disinterest. “I hope there’s something going on besides ill-equipped raiders.” 

“You should be more excited, Jackson!” His father walked over and clapped him in the back. Since the day Ser David had adopted the boy, he had always treated him as if he were his own flesh and blood. “There is big news that means everything for our family.”

The maester didn’t seem as happy. In fact, he almost seemed lost in thought. 

Jackson gestured. “I might die of anticipation, if you don’t tell me.” This was easier than talking about what had happened before.

“The King rides for Winterfell!” His adopted father beamed. “The King rides for Winterfell with his family. That means the Queen and her brothers. And that means that House Argent comes with them.” He seemed alight with possibility. “And that means, so do we.”


	3. Winter is Coming (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Animal cruelty occurs in this chapter, because Kate is Kate.

****

**Jackson**

The knights from Beacon Hills stood in the very back of Winterfell’s great courtyard. Jackson was literally pressed up against the wall and by the smell, he estimated he was about five feet from the privy. From his position, he could barely see the top of Eddard Stark’s head. He really wanted some sort of box to stand on. 

“Is there any way we could get closer?” He whispered to his father. 

Ser David frowned and shook his head in warning. Jackson did his best not to sigh out loud. After so many years of having Jackson as his son, the older knight still had no idea how important things like this would be to his son nor would he have any clue how frustrating passivity could be. To be so close to the most important people in the Seven Kingdoms and yet still feel as unimportant as those unfortunate dregs back in Beacon Hills grated on Jackson’s nerves.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the King’s caravan. At least he could see their faces and helmets, since they were mounted on horses. Even with so little to see, it was impressive. All Jackson’s frustration at being in the back vanished. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

So many of them looked like proper knights to Jackson and not like those drab, artless Northern soldiers. All the warriors above the Neck pretended that their brutish ferocity was the real key to battle, and that the knights of the South were fancy morons who would perish in a real war. It was exaggerated boasting for the most part. Yes, northern warriors were not to be underestimated. They used the terrain to their advantage and they fought hard and most often without quarter. Yet, southern knights were far more disciplined and could respond to tactical commands with more efficiency. At least, that is what Jackson had always read.

Both styles of fighting had their strengths, so what it came down to was a matter of taste. Jackson knew what he preferred. If you were going to live a life of warfare and blood, where you could die at any time, he would prefer that life to be one of gallantry and beauty. War seemed glorious when it was between equals; the death of the wildling woman, someone so beneath his skill, still disturbed his sleep. 

Jackson turned his attention back to the Royal Entourage. He could see the King himself. He had heard so many tales of Robert’s Rebellion and the Greyjoy Rebellion. He knew that those struggles had much death and destruction, but he also knew that they meant something. Riding through the woods tracking down poachers and bandits were part of a knight’s calling, but those tasks seemed to him to be meaningless in the great tale of years. Bringing down a rebellious reaver lord or seeking revenge for the rape of your sister by a mad king’s son were things that mattered. 

Jackson wanted to matter.

He wanted to matter like the Kingsguard mattered. The seven greatest knights in the kingdom, entrusted with the protection of the King and his family. The safety of the Baratheons was more than just glorified guard duty; it insured the stability of the Seven Kingdoms. Those seven knights were here before him now; he could barely contain his excitement.

He stared at the guard in their resplendent armor and white cloaks and daydreamed about wearing it himself. If he had to speak truth, he even admired the armor of the Hound, the Heir Apparent’s personal bodyguard. Their armors far more intricate than his rather generic suit; he would not stand out on the field. He would have to badger his father to get something better. Finally, though, he was pulled away from daydreams about what this better armor could be by his father tugging at him. 

“This way, son. I’ve spied Lady Argent over there. Come, now.” 

Sighing once more, he followed his father through the crowds of people, since they were no longer required to stand at attention as the King and Lord Stark had descended to the catacombs. The Queen looked like she was ready to murder any random person who got in her way. She seemed formidable and bitterly frustrated at the same time, and Jackson was glad he probably would never exchange a word for her.

Ser David slowed to a stop which brought Jackson up short behind him. Someone who had to be Lady Argent and a younger girl who had to be her daughter were in conversation with Lady Stark, and it would be the height of rudeness to insert themselves into the conversation.

Lady Victoria Argent was, in her own way, as intimidating as the Queen, but she also knew how to be humble around people of greater rank. “You’re very kind, Lady Stark. I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”

Catelyn Stark managed to be polite and no-nonsense at the same time. “I come from the Riverlands myself, so I know that bridging two different ways of life can be very difficult. You’ll be welcome to visit us in Winterfell at any time.” 

Lady Argent curtsied as did her daughter and withdrew, heading directly toward them. The Lady’s manner changed as Jackson watched. She had gone from speaking to a superior to speaking to a vassal. She wasn’t cruel, but she was direct. 

“Ser Whittemore.” She extended her hand and both Jackson and his father took a knee. 

“Lady Victoria.” His father replied, as graciously as he could manage. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“Hmm. This is my daughter, Allison.” Jackson could see that the girl was beautiful. “Allison, this is the Steward of our lands in the north, Ser David Whittemore, and his son, Ser Jackson Whittemore.”

Allison curtsied with the appropriate depth, indicating her social position above the Whittemores but yet somehow conveying that in the gentlest way possible. Jackson couldn’t tell if she had just been trained very, very well or if she was genuinely a nice person. Her clothing was far different than what the Northern girls wore. Maybe this was all the fashion in the Westerlands or King’s Landing.

“My lady, forgive me for asking, but I thought that the message said that more of your family would be coming.” Lady Victoria and Allison had ridden north as part of the King’s Entourage. Unlike the other women, they had not rode with the Queen but on horses of their own. 

“Oh, that. My sister-in-law, Lady Katherine, rode with us until Cerwyn. She decided to ride straight to Beacon Hills.” Lady Victoria sounded unimpressed with the very idea of her sister-in-law.

“I wish I could have gone with her,” Allison said. “I’ve heard so much about it, but I’ve never been this far north.”

Victoria tsked at her daughter. “You’ll see it soon enough. Ser Whittemore, I know the raven did not include this, but Allison and I will also be going to Beacon Hills. Katherine’s probably already arrived by now.”

Ser David must have been panicked, but he didn’t show it. There was nothing prepared back home for the arrival of House Argent. Jackson had to admit he was proud of his father’s ability to keep a straight face. “I’m sure we will make do, my lady.”

Jackson himself felt he had to say something. He had been standing mutely, and he didn’t want the members of the house he was sworn to thinking he was a simpleton. “Lady Katherine did not wish to come to Winterfell?” 

“Lady Katherine is not welcome in Winterfell. Lord Eddard has a particular dislike of her.” Victoria’s tone indicated that this was not a topic that anyone would wish to pursue. “You and your son would not mind eating with us at the feast tonight?” She didn’t actually stay for an answer. She assumed that their stewards would do so.

**Scott**

Scott was in the courtyard of the keep when he heard the riders approach. He had just come from the Maester’s room to have his bandages changed. Things were healing well, according to Alan. The panic of the first couple of days had faded from an incipient attack on his weak lungs to a dull ache in the back of his skull. He had convinced himself that he was going to be all right in the end.

And then the riders had come.

There were five of them, four men and a woman. The men were dressed in traveling clothes, stained by a hard ride. This seemed fitting as they were hard men, tanned and grim, carrying bows and swords. They didn’t strike Scott as soldiers — he had seen plenty of them at the keep — but more like the bandits that had been caught and hung. They didn’t look at the people in the courtyard and see human beings. They saw obstacles.

The woman rode at their head. She had wavy blond hair that she wore lose and flowing and a look in her eyes that made Scott uneasy. The men with her rough, but they seemed not to have a choice about it. They were what their lives had made them. This woman was sharp as a blade and she was that way because she wanted to be. She was dressed as a man on a hunt. She had at her hip and several knives carried on her person, and a bow on her back. She dismounted immediately upon riding into the keep. 

She let her horse stamp off. The riders had been unannounced and unexpected, so most of the people had shied away from her arrival. Scott hadn’t. He’d been more curious than wary. “Aren’t you going to get my horse?” The woman lifted one eyebrow as if she was amused.

Scott startled from where he had been standing. He wasn’t the actual stable boy, but he was in charge of keeping the horses at night. “Yes. Sorry.” He took control of the horse.

The woman laughed. “I take it Ser David isn’t here?” Her men began dismounting their horses, but they seemed willing to take their own care of their mounts. “Who’s in charge of this dung heap while he’s away?”

“Ser Noah runs the town.” Scott answered without bristling at the insult. He was used to being around Ser Jackson. “Maester Alan is in charge of the keep.” 

“That withered old sour puss is still here?” The woman laughed out loud. “Well, take care of my horse and show my men the stables.” 

“Where should I put your things?” Scott saw she had full saddlebags. 

“Aren’t you just the helpful thing? What’s your name?” The woman asked, merrily. 

“I’m Scott. I’m the kennel master.” He felt like sharing his title. This woman acted like she already owned the place, and he wanted to remind her that he belonged here. 

“Well, hello, Scott. Once you get my horse stabled, bring your beautiful brown eyes and my effects to the Great Hall.” She winked at him. “I’m not going anywhere else.”

Scott took her horse around back to the stables, and the four men that came with the woman come after him. The stables were big enough to house them, especially with Ser David and Ser Jackson at Winterfell. He showed the men where they could get what they needed and unsaddled the woman’s horse. The men didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk. They just asked if there is a place where whores could be found in town. Scott had never been to the brothel, but he knows where it was.

He found the woman in the great hall. She was sitting on a chair, her boots propped up next to the fire, and she was smirking at Maester Alan. The maester tended not to be expressive, but Scott could tell that he was utterly displeased at her presence. The older man had a way of standing straight with his shoulders thrown back when he was really angry. And he was really, really angry.

“Here are your things, milady.” Scott announced.

“Take them to the lord’s chamber,” the woman said.

Maester Alan frowned and she caught it.

“I am, in the eyes of the law, Lady Hale. This keep is mine. That village is mine. These lands are mine.” 

“I would be remiss not to point out that the Warden of the North forbade you from claiming that title, Lady Katherine.” The maester’s voice was as cold as the spring that flowed north of the keep. 

“The Warden of the North …” Kate’s voice mimicked. “These lands are still Argent lands. Put them in the lord’s room, Brown Eyes.”

Scott glanced at the maester who nodded imperceptibly. A staircase wound its way around the outer wall of the Great Hall and up to the second floor. Scott could hear their conversation as he went up the stairs.

“It must be difficult for you serving here.” Lady Katherine began once again. “Serving us.” 

“On the one hand, I am bound by my vows to serve whoever holds the castle in which I reside, regardless of changes in lordship …” 

“Which means you serve us, because these lands are now Argent lands. That’s true, isn’t it?” 

“If you would go to the letter of the law, the castle to which I was assigned was the Hale House, now in ruins. But I choose to help where I am able to help.” Alan observed calmly.

Lady Katherine bounced to her feet. “Yes, you were. A shame about that really. It must have been torturous for you to be so close to the Hales and have them all burn when you were off … somewhere else. I meant to ask you where you got off to that night?”

“I rode to the Rills. I had personal business.”

The woman got right in his face. “One could even say that it was suspicious that you were gone.” 

The disdain in the maester’s eyes did not reach his voice. “One could. One would be wrong. I serve the Hales loyally.”

Scott went into Ser David’s bedroom, but he left the door cracked so he could hear the rest. It was wrong to eavesdrop, but he didn’t like this woman, and he didn’t want her to do anything to his mentor. 

“There are no more Hales.” 

“You know of two Hales, Lady Katherine. Your former husband is still a Hale, even if he has taken the Black.” 

Scott waited by the door. He strained to hear the next words.

“My husband …” The derision was clear on Lady Katherine’s lips. “My husband is in no position to be served by you.”

“Peter Hale’s bastard still lives and still has the express protection of Lord Eddard Stark.” Scott had long worked with the maester and could hear the tiny triumph in his words. “But you knew that. One might suspect that eventually Lord Stark will return these lands to the Hales.”

Scott hear a chair push back in anger.

“Somehow,” Lady Katherine hissed. “I doubt that he’ll live that long.”

**Allison**

One thing that could be said for feasts in the North; they were enthusiastically egalitarian. There was no clear separation between the peasants who worked at Winterfell and Robert Baratheon, Lord of Seven Kingdoms. Of course, there were certain tables for certain families, but you’d have to know who was who before you could tell which table was which. 

The Starks did not pay the least bit of mind. They moved among their bannermen and their servants with very little concern for artificial boundaries or propriety. It was not at all like Allison had been raised. It was not that she had been taught to be disdainful of lower knights or to be mean to commoners, but she had been taught that the boundaries between royalty and nobility, nobility and knighthood, knighthood and commoners, existed to protect everyone, especially from each other.

Her mother and father had stressed that being part of an ancient house didn’t make her intrinsically better than any commoner. In fact, she had more responsibility than any commoner she had ever met. She had to protect the people under her rule; she had to be fair and just even when dealing with her enemies; she had to make sacrifices that commoners would take for granted. These duties were balanced by the ability to live in luxury and the expectation of obedience from those beneath them.

For her specifically, it meant that one day, Allison would have to marry someone who increased the power and influence of her house. If the Seven smiled upon her, she might like the person she was going to marry. If the Seven were very kind, she might even love them. It was not something she should expect to happen, however. Her mother had been very firm about ridding her of any delusions.

Allison watched the table which held the noble young ladies of Winterfell. They seemed to be good friends. They were a little younger than she was, but she wished she could go sit with them. Usually, she could have but right now her mother was making her spend time with Ser Whittemore and his son.

Ser David Whittemore was a person that her mother frequently dismissed as ‘useful.’ It sounded like a compliment, but it was not. He was a knight who wanted to be more, and he was willing to use the prestige of a house like the Argents in order to get more. However, he wasn’t very brave and he wasn’t very creative; he crept along the edges like a cautious mouse. Cautious mice, no matter how ambitious, didn’t get very far in the Great Game.

His son, on the other hand, was still young, and she could see the potential. He was arrogant, which Allison had to expect from someone who was that handsome and, reportedly, that talented. He tried to hide the disdain he felt for the North, which is something that Allison didn’t share, but in Allison’s experience, familiarity bred contempt.

To her, the North was so different that it was invigorating. While she would never tell her mother that she wasn’t comfortable in the hallways of their castle or the upper class haunts of King’s Landing, she frequently found herself stifled and disturbed by the constant need for discernment and decorum. She spent so much time being what everyone else expected her to be, that sometimes she couldn’t remember who she was.

She was looking forward to spending time at the land her family had in the North. It had come to them through her Aunt Kate, who was there now. She could go riding, go hunting, and get to know people without being thought of as the granddaughter of the Lion’s Shadow. 

She took a sip of her wine and shot another glance over towards the table where the youngest Stark daughter had just hit her sister with a spoonful of food. It was funny, though it wasn’t the place.

“So,” interrupted Ser David, “are you as fond of hunting as your aunt, Lady Allison?”

“Hunting is not a proper pursuit for a lady,” Allison replied, glancing at her mother, “so I should answer that I am not.”

“I heard your aunt goes hunting with the King.” Jackson looked over to where said King was rollicking around with a large-breasted serving woman. “That’s got to be exciting. I’d be envious.”

Lady Victoria looked anything but envious. She obviously saw the King’s indiscretions and was not amused. “Certain situations are not appropriate for unmarried girls. Katherine is a widow; they often have eccentric personalities.”

Allison demurred from continuing the conversation. She knew that her aunt’s deportment was a sore spot with her mother, and to be truthful, with her father as well. Her grandfather, however, encouraged Aunt Kate’s dedication to hunting. It wasn’t because he wanted her to be happy; her reputation had grown that everyone wanted to hunt with Katherine Argent, and that included the king. It gave the family leverage.

Eventually, her mother attempted to take control of the conversation once more. “In a way, the question of marriage is something I wanted to bring up with you, Ser David.” 

“Ehn?” The knight was taken at unawares.

“Christopher and I were believe that we should make an effort to find Allison here a suitable match.” She turned and smiled at Allison.

Allison’s heart dropped into her stomach. Of course, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her mother had never hid from her that this day would come. She just didn’t think it would that soon.

“You have someone in mind?” Ser David looked interested.

“Yes. We were thinking Ser Jackson here would be a proper candidate. Since Lady Katherine cannot claim the lands here herself, Allison and Jackson might do it together.”

Ser Jackson looked like his horse had kicked him in the face. It wasn’t flattering to Allison to say the least. 

Ser David looked pleased. “I think that is a fine idea.”

“Of course,” Victoria went on. “He would have to take the Argent name. I’m sure you understand.”

The sounds of the banquet washed over them as the table contemplated what had just been said. Allison and Ser Jackson were shocked and Ser David was crushed. Jackson was his only son. If he took the Argent name, the Whittemore name would die out. 

Allison looked over at the table. “Mother, would you mind if Ser Jackson and I got some air? You could discuss the arrangements with Ser David while we were gone.”

Victoria’s glance bespoke calculation. She nodded and Allison stood up. “Would you come with me, Ser Jackson?” 

The knight nodded mutely and stood. As they were leaving the banquet, people watched them as if they knew. Allison treated them with courtesy but did nothing to confirm or deny their actions.

“I would like you to know, Ser Jackson, that I had no foreknowledge of my mother’s plan.” She allowed him to lead her up on the parapet.

“That is only fair. I didn’t either.” He added. Perhaps he meant it as a joke.

“You seemed dismayed at the prospect.” Allison glided along the walkway in the chill of the night. She could still hear the far distant sound of the banquet. Somewhere else, someone was chopping wood or whacking something with a piece of metal, she couldn’t tell which.

“I am. It’s nothing against you, m’lady.” The knight was … confident. She liked that. “Marrying you would most certainly seal your family’s claim on what used to be the Hale lands.”

“Yes.” Allison kept her face neutral. She had always known about this.

“I’d expect that as Lord Argent, I’d have to stay in those lands.” He didn’t hesitate at all.

“That displeases you?”

“Frankly, yes. I’d have hoped to go south to King’s Landing.” Ser Jackson stopped at certain point. He was courteous but not kind, but Allison appreciated his candor. “It was my ambition.”

“We all have our duties to perform.”

“I guess we do.” Jackson frowned. “Would you like to ride with me when we head to Beacon Hills? It will get us a chance to know each other.”

“You are acting as if we already betrothed.”

“I know my father, Lady Allison. The deal was set the moment your lady mother opened her mouth.” 

**Scott**

Scott rushed through the forest after the hunting party. He had been running since this morning. He was beginning to breathe in great heaving gasps, but he didn’t feel the burning in his lungs quite yet. He had learned his limitations over the years; he was as in good a shape as any boy in the village, but at certain times of the year or in certain places, he couldn’t run for long. His lungs would suddenly fill up as if he was breathing water; it was as if someone was sitting on his chest.

He just hoped that today would not be one of those days.

The dogs were up ahead and he could faintly hear their baying. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail that the hunting party left behind them. 

Some hunters liked to stalk their prey, pitting their own skill at moving silently against the animals that they were hunting. Scott was sure that Lady Katherine could certainly be stealthy if she wanted to be. She had scared him earlier that morning by appearing in his room and ordering to have the dogs ready for a hunt today without him being aware of her approach. But she wasn’t stalking today. She had spread the dogs out in front of her and was going after any game that they startled out of cover.

She had already killed a doe and hung its body up in a tree. Alone it would serve enough meat for the entire keep. Yet still she wanted to continue. 

The pack of dogs was far ahead; they could run faster than Scott could run. Lady Katherine was also far ahead with two of her men and Stiles. As a squire, she had commandeered his friend into riding along with her. Stiles hated hunted and was not very good at it, so it was probably a source of frustration for both of them. 

Stiles had tried to argue that they should have a horse for Scott, but Lady Katherine didn’t think it was necessary. So here he was, trying to keep up with dogs and horsemen on foot.

Scott sprang over a fallen tree and pushed his way through a thicket. He had caught up with the riders. They were taking some sort of a break, but the dogs were milling about. The huntress was exasperated. Scott could tell by her body language. Even as she drank water from a skin, she was irritated by the delay.

“Scott!” Stiles called out from the edge of something; he was kneeling and studying it. “Walker fell down this ravine.”

Scott hurried up to the location and dropped down beside him. It wasn’t a terribly deep ravine, maybe about fifteen feet. Immediately, Scott began to climb down the side.

“Be careful, the dogs were chasing a buck and Walker must have missed the drop off. He tumbled down there. I think he’s hurt.” Stiles explained as Scott made his way down.

Scott knew Walker well. The hound was one of the oldest in the pack; past his prime but not elderly. What he lacked in speed and strength among the younger hounds, he more than made up in savvy. Scott was a little anxious; Walker was affection and friendly. The dog was whining at the bottom of the ravine, and when it recognized Scott, it tried to stand, only to fail. Scott nearly jumped down the rest of the way to get to the dog. “That’s okay, boy.” 

Scott had learned a lot from Maester Alan. He calmed the dog down and checked the leg that seemed to be the one Walker had a problem standing on. He didn’t think it was broken, but it could be strained and heavily bruised. He put together a crude splint. He didn’t have anything to reduce the pain here. 

“Come on, boy. Come on.” He soothed and picked up the dog to drape it around his neck. It took a little while to get into a comfortable position.

“Need help?” Stiles called from up above.

“I’m coming up!” Carefully, straining as Walker wasn’t a small dog, Scott climbed the sides of the ravine. He had to be careful that the plants and tree roots he used as handholds did not give way. He also had to comfort the dog from time to time. It was hurt and scared.

“What is taking so long?” Scott heard Lady Katherine call out. “We’re losing daylight.”

“Scott is bringing the dog up now,” Stiles explained.

“Scott?” Lady Katherine had forgotten his name; they had been introduced that morning. “The one with the adorable brown eyes? Or the kennel boy?” Her men laughed.

 _Kennel master_ , Scott grunted to himself. He tried to ignore the noblewoman’s teasing as he pulled himself up. Finally, slowly, he got to the top and Stiles gave him a hand to go the last few minutes.

“Will he be well?” Stiles asked as he helped take Walker off his shoulders. 

Scott petted the dog’s head. “He won’t be running any more today. I don’t think the bone is broken, so he should …” 

An arrow interrupted, burying itself expertly in Walker’s chest. The dog let out a single whimper and then went limp. It was a clean shot. 

Scott’s eyes shot up to look at Lady Katherine who was sneering at him. “We have a good four hours of sunlight left. You didn’t think I was going to give that up, did you?”

“I could have helped him!” Scott usually didn’t raise his voice to lords, but he was outraged. 

“It’s a _dog_. You’ve got five more to take care of, Brown Eyes.” Lady Katherine turned away. “We’re back on the hunt; now mount up.”

Scott felt his hands clench. He wouldn’t even be able to cover Walker. He tried to memorize the location so he could come back and give the dog a proper burial, so he wasn’t food for scavengers to tear apart. 

Stiles was just as outraged as Scott, but not as willing to bite his tongue. “That was not your hound; that was Ser David’s!” 

Kate was surprised that anyone would talk after she had given an order. “Squire, mayhap your father is ignorant on your education, but I am Ser David’s liege. His castle, his horse, his sword, the pot he pisses in, is by law, mine to do with as I see fit. Just like your father’s. Just like yours.” 

“By the Seven …” 

“I thought they worshiped the Old Gods in the North?” The lady shrugged, but there was an aggression beneath it. “By the Seven, indeed. Let me tell you, squire, that the Seven are nothing but a hunter and his pack. The Father, the Mother, the Crone –- all the rules the septons and the septa teach you -- they’re dogs baying on the trail. The Stranger is the hunter, and he will come to take all of us in the end.” She walked up to Stiles and tapped him on the nose. “No matter what tricks the fox plays.” She smirked at Scott. “No matter how steadfast and true the hound stays. We are all destined for the larder.”

“There was still no reason …” Stiles would not be quieted.

“While we live, we can be one of two things,” Lady Katherine drew a knife. “The hunter or the prey. The trick is to be the hunter for as long as possible, and that means, my dear fox, that we must take game where we find it. Now, would you like to mount up? Or … “ She flipped the knife. “Would you like to run ahead of the hounds?”

Scott stepped forward and put a hand on Stiles’ back. It was a breach of etiquette, but he knew how Stiles could be when he was angry. Without a further word, Stiles mounted back up on his horse and the road off. Scott took one last glance at Walker’s corpse, and followed the hunting party.


	4. The Kingsroad

**Allison**

“This is completely unacceptable.” Lady Victoria stood ramrod straight in the courtyard of the keep, her mouth drawn down into a frown. Once she had stepped down from the heavy carriage that had brought to Beacon Hills from Winterfell, she had rotated in place, taking in the dimensions and the nature of the place. The household staff stood before her in greeting, bathed in the mid-afternoon light. They were led by the steward, the maester, two knights and their squires and the Lady Katherine. Allison, perched on her own horse, rolled her eyes at her aunt who responded with a wink.

Ser David’s face was similar in pallor to a soldier with a mortal wound. “My … lady?”

“This is your home, isn’t it?” 

As Allison dismounted from her stallion, one of the castle’s servants rushed up and took hold of the reins for her. As she did, their eyes met; something in his eyes arrested her, but then she remembered both her station and her modesty. The servant was young and handsome, though not remarkably so. He looked Dornish, dressed and groomed as a peasant would be, and he possessed a slightly misshapen jaw, but she had seen a certain warmth when their gazes met that she wasn’t used to seeing in the servants she dealt with every day. Mostly they avoided looking at or talking with her.

“Yes, my lady.” Ser David, fearing he was being censured, desperately tried to explain. “We’ve tried out best to make it comfortable.”

Lady Victoria made a curt hand gesture, dismissing his plea. “It would terribly unfair for us to uproot your family like that. And even if we were so crass as to do so, this keep is certainly not big enough for our needs. Are there any possible homes in the village proper that might serve?”

Allison studied the keep from where she was. It was rather small compared to the keeps she had been to throughout Westeros, but then again, it was originally meant to only be a watch over the Winterfell Road. The real castle had been the Hale House, now a ruin on a hill that she had barely saw as they had arrived.

Ser David was at a loss, but Ser Noah stepped forward. “My lady, there are a few houses within the village that might be suitable for your needs. I would offer you my own, though I’m not quite sure it would be adequate.”

“And you are?”

“I am Ser Noah Stilinski, your sworn sword. This is my son and squire, Stiles.” He bowed and Stiles followed suit. 

“It’s very kind of you to offer House Argent your home. Why don’t you take me there, and we shall see.” 

“Victoria! You just got here!” Kate sauntered forward. “Why not take a moment to rest before finding some poor family to evict from their house. I’m sure that all of you must be tired. Ser Whittemore can put up with us for at least a little while.” 

Her mother’s frown did not subside. She never liked it when Kate tried to intrude upon her decisions in all the years she had been married to Kate’s brother. Her aunt always seemed to do it out of impishness and took great pleasure in it. 

Allison cleared her throat. “You should rest at least a little while, Mother. I’ll take Ser Jackson and ride through the town itself. He can tell me all about the houses that might be found there beyond Ser Noah’s home.”

She glanced over to where the knight was still astride his horse and saw the look of horror cross his face. She wasn’t sure where it came from until she glanced back over at Ser Noah and his son. The son, Stiles, had the tiniest hint of a smirk. 

Ser Noah intervened. “My son should accompany you, Lady Allison. He’s far more familiar with the people in the town then Ser Jackson is. Ser Jackson has taken his duties as a knight very seriously.” The smirk on Stile’s face faded. 

Lady Victoria caught her eye and Allison nodded graciously. “I would love to have your son’s companionship.” Her mother had taught her how to read social situations effectively. Ser Jackson didn’t spend much time among the people of the village; he probably thought he was above them. Allison didn’t dislike the knight, but she couldn’t help but notice his streak of elitism. 

Stiles bowed his head appropriately but then shot a bold look at the eldest Whittemore. “Ser David, would you mind if Scott came with us?”

The knight didn’t look surprised by the request, only annoyed. “He’ll need to be back by nightfall to take care of the stables, but I’m sure he’ll be a good help.” 

The young Dornish who had aided her with the horse stepped forward once again. “Would you like me to help you mount, milady?” 

“No need.” Allison had learned how to ride when she was ten. Most women of her class would never learn, but she had no other choice. The Argents required their women to be just as formidable as the men, and Allison actually was glad because she knew that the people of the North wouldn’t look down on it. 

Allison, Stiles, and Jackson rode out of the keep, with the servant named Scott following at their heels. Allison didn’t feel any reluctance to leave her mother and aunt behind; sometimes it was too easy to feel suffocated by them. 

One of the subjects that her family had insisted she learn about was war craft. That was why she saw why the Whittemore’s keep had been built where it was. The road from Winterfell passed through the Wolf’s Wood and directly into the village and thus the harbor. The old Hale House fortress stood on the other side of the fjord on a rocky hill overlooking the ocean. From there, the fortress could protect the village from invasions from the ocean, the south and the west. When the Hale House had first been built thousands of years ago, the Wolf’s Wood held the east approach to the village, but the construction of the road created an unprotected approach. Thus the keep was built. Even in times of peace, it was a good place from which to launch actions against bandits.

Allison pointed that out to Ser Jackson. She had heard stories of his prowess and wanted to know if he had studied as well.

“We haven’t had anything …” He began. 

“Except the wildlings that came through but a few days ago!” interrupted Stiles. “I’ve been reading some of Maester Alan’s books about the Hales, about when they held the lordship over these lands. The only real danger since Aegon the Conqueror’s invasion have been the Ironborn raids. They used to sail up the harbor and raid the village in the middle of the night. The raids got so bad that Hale Ladies make sure that we have both a watchtower and a harbor chain.”

“Really?” Allison was generally interested. Ser Jackson was fuming, but he didn’t say anything. Allison reluctantly concluded that the knight didn’t know about the history of the defenses, but she though it wise of him not to demonstrate that.

“There’s a rock just outside the harbor which has a watchtower on it. Uhm …” 

“Gull Rock,” Scott added helpfully from behind them. 

“Yeah, that’s it. There’s a small tower built upon it, which the Hales ordered be kept well-lit during raiding season.”

“Do you know where the boom chain lies? I’d love to see it.” Allison said eagerly. She then glanced towards Ser Jackson. “If you think we’ll have time.”

Ser Jackson gave an exaggerated shrug. “We have little choice; if we don’t, the squire will talk our ears off.”

Stiles’ mouth drew into a thin line, but Allison watched Scott come up and put a hand, rather familiarly, on Stiles’ calf and give it a light squeeze. The squire relaxed. “As you say,” Stiles replied lightly. “I’m known to be a chatterbox.”

“Some men are good with words and some with swords. The Crone has seen fit to give this land both,” Allison ventured, diplomatically.

This mollified the knight and the squire. There seemed to be some subtle animosity between them, though it didn’t seem to be a great source of discomfort at this time. Allison simply wasn’t prepared to have her visit ruined by squabbling, so she acted to end it. 

As they subsided, she glanced behind her. Scott, the servant, was staring at her like she was some wondrous treasure that the gods had seen fit to reveal to him. Their eyes met once more, but he was soon overtaken by his blush and stared toward the ground. 

_It was nothing for him to admire her for_ , she thought to herself, _handling men’s problems_. She heard the echo of her mother’s voice in that. On the other hand, Allison had to admit that there was some part of her that liked the way he had looked at her.

Beacon Hills proper was spread out on either side of the fjord like flotsam and jetsam washed up on a beach. The road split into three directions where the inlet began, one splitting off to climb the cliffs to the haunted Hale House, and the other two followed the dog-legged shape of the inlet. 

“Building in the village has always been a pickle,” Stiles began. “When the storms come in off the Bay of Ice, they usually come sweeping towards the Woodside.” He indicated the path to the farthest east on the right side of the fjord. “So, homes would generally be warmer and dryer on Cliffside. But Cliffside is steeper, and getting the lumber from the forest to where you would build the homes is far more difficult. There’s not much on Cliffside but rock and grass till you reach the Hale House at the top. So homes on Woodside are cheaper.”

Allison rides down the road to Cliffside. Money isn’t really a problem with her family. “Why don’t they use the lumber from the Hale House?”

“Most say it’s haunted,” Scott offered up from the back.

Ser Jackson burst into a derisive chuckle. “And these people also believe White Walkers are real.”

“I’ve never heard of a haunted castle before, but I have heard stories about the White Walkers from the lands beyond the wall!” Allison smiled at them. “You’ll have to tell me all of them that you know while I’m here.”

“We will, my lady,” Stiles said solemnly. “Now, you’ve got Cliffside and Woodside, but there’s also High and Low. ‘Low’ means close to the water; the beaches here are very narrow, and not all of them are good for building. The docks, and the storehouses, and the inns are located on Low.” He gestured up as they went down the street. “Though my father’s house is also on Low Woodside. It’s strange, but he’s in charge of keeping the peace, so he likes to be close to everything. The bigger houses that might interest the Ladies Argent are actually on High Cliffside.”

They were indeed the bigger, nicer houses, and they would certainly serve us better as some place for the Argents to stay while they were up north. As Allison studied that neighborhood, she saw one house with pink and red shutters that seemed well-cared for. It was perched on a little knob of rock. “That one is pretty, but too small for us, I think.”

“Thank you,” Scott piped up smiling. 

“Your house is on High Cliffside?” Jackson demanded incredulously. 

Scott focused on the house and not on the knight’s disbelief. “It’s not that big.”

“Scott’s father is a captain of a ship in the King’s Navy,” Stiles announced with the slightest glare towards Jackson. “After his service during the Greyjoy Rebellion, Lady Hale gave his family their house.”

“How interesting!” Allison declared. “He must have done some good work to be rewarded like that.”

“If you think his father’s interesting, you should meet his mother …”

“Stiles!” Scott was blushing thoroughly. 

“Maybe some other time,” Allison smiled back at the squire. 

Allison had seen some homes that might be big enough to house her mother and their entourage, and she quizzed Stiles on who lived there and whether they would be put out if their houses were commandeered. By right of law, Lady Victoria could demand any of her subjects surrender their homes to her, but Allison knew that her family would never do that. Not only would it be wrong, but it would erode the bonds between the rulers and the ruled.

 _It is easy_ , her mother had lectured her, _to think that the commoners mean nothing. But they are the ones who make up our armies; they are the ones that feed us; they are the ones that allow us to live as we do. When you place the art of ruling above all else, you always keep one eye upon them, and you never needlessly antagonize them_.

They eventually the reach the end of the Cliffside road. It was there that Stiles showed her the harbor chain and the locked chamber within the cliff where the cranks that could pull the chain taught, blocking off the harbor’s entrance. From their position, they could see Gull Rock just outside the entrance to the fjord. It must be very lonely out there, Allison imagined. 

“Who mans it?” She asked Stiles. 

“A hermit named Finstock. Claims he can’t stand most people, so he’s better off manning the rock all day. You can sometimes find him at the inns or playing with the children.” 

Allison convinced them to ride back down to the Woodside road. Even though none of the buildings there would satisfy her mother, she wanted to see all of Beacon Hills. Her family was responsible for the safety of its people. 

The road was rougher by necessity; crushed stone had been placed on it. The older residents who could remember winter made sure of it. Sleet off the Bay of Ice was even more common than snow. It kept people and their mules from slipping; people who could afford horses lived across the fjord.

Still, Allison had seen worse places to live. She had traveled through the slums of King’s Landing. While none of the houses in Woodside were ever going to be something her family would consent to live in, most of them were tidy and clean, with plenty of space between them. While people in the capital didn’t have to worry about wolves, ice storms and wildlings, the people in Beacon Hills didn’t have to worry about the cut-throats among the beggars.

As if on cue, the Argent heir saw a woman pretty near to her own age sitting on the side of the road. She had the same ratty clothes as a beggar, the same aura of malign neglect, the same twisted estrangement that she had seen so many times in the capital. Beggars had to put themselves out where others could see them and yet not be too forward if they wished to earn any coin. Allison would never know what it was like, but she imagine what state having to face constant humiliation in order to survive could put one in.

From this distance, the woman was sitting up against the wall of a barn, her head thrown back to get the sun’s rays. She looked asleep, but even in sleep her face was haggard, and her blond hair wild and uncontrolled.

“Is that woman well?” 

Ser Jackson looked over at the woman with a puzzled frown. While she was watching, concern passed over his features until he realized she was looking at him. He banished it, as if it were a weakness.

Scott and Stiles seemed to know her. With a glance at his friend, Scott immediately ran over to the side of the barn, stopping only when he must have marked her breathing. “Hey.” He called out in a firm voice; enough to wake a person but not to scare them. “Hey, Erica are you all right?”

Stiles watched Scott run over but leaned over to Allison. “That’s Erica.”

“She heard the kennel-man call out to her, idiot,” Jackson sneered. “I’ve heard of her; the woman is touched.”

Erica roused and immediately became pretty surly. “I was sleeping, fool.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott apologized. “You know I’m not very good at telling the difference.”

“And yet,” Erica complained, batting at his hands, “you still think it’s any concern of yours to check on me. I’m not one of your hounds; spend your care on them. And who are these fancy folk? Oh, wait, that’s not a fancy person, that’s just Stiles.”

“Oh, good,” Stiles responded, sarcastically. “I thought you’d lost your sight as well as your wits.” 

This, to Allison’s surprise, brought a smile to the Erica’s face. “Should I rise and curtsey? I’ve not had the practice for many moons.” 

“Oh, by the Seven, no!” Stiles shook his head violently. “Lady Allison would flee the land in wonder, and we couldn’t have that, could we?”

Erica tried to brush Allison’s title off as if it were nothing, but she did straighten slightly, as all commoners usually did. “You’re a braggart and a dolt, Stiles Stilinski.” She pushed herself to her feet and did curtsey passably well. Where Allison came from, it wasn’t appropriate for a commoner to do, but the commoners were much friendlier with the nobility in the North.

Allison had watched the exchange between Erica and Stiles, but she had also kept one eye on Scott, who was still standing near Erica. While they had bantered, Scott was surreptitiously making sure Erica was well. When he saw that she was, he quietly faded back to his position behind their horses. Allison nodded to Erica in recognition of her curtsey. “She did just fine, Stiles.”

Stiles harrumphed good naturedly. Erica sat back down and made herself comfortable once again. “A fine day to you all.”

Once the party was out of earshot, Allison turned to Scott. She should have asked Stiles, but she wanted to hear the kennel man speak more. “What is the woman’s story?”

“Ser Jackson is right. Erica has these spells that are dangerous to her, but no matter how many times my mother or Maester Alan tries to explain to the villagers here that the fits are only dangerous to her, people think she’s a woods witch.” Scott sounded sad. 

“Your mother is a healer?” Allison asked.

“She’s the midwife for the village,” Scott answered proudly.

“Erica can’t live with her family anymore.” Stile drew a deep breath and let it out; it bothered him. “They’re cobblers, but people won’t buy from them if they know Erica’s around. The septon and my father keep an eye out for her when her family can’t.”

Allison smiled. “I’m glad.” 

“I’m worried what she’s going to do when winter comes,” Scott looked back over his shoulder.

They turned the corner and started back up the road towards the keep. Allison determined that she would find something for the young woman, if she could persuade her mother.

**Stiles**

The sun was fast disappearing over the cliffs above Beacon Hills when Stiles returned to the house he shared with his father on Low Woodside. It had been a long day spent showing Lady Allison around, and he was tired, but it was still his responsibility to have dinner ready for when his father got home. If he didn’t have it ready, his father would satisfy himself with a dried apple and a hunk of this morning’s bread, and that was not a good meal. When his mother had still been alive, she would have cooked him something filling and made Ser Noah eat it, but she was dead and gone. Stiles was all that the knight had left, and the squire knew he had to take care of his father.

His mother was buried far away in the Riverlands; that he would never be able to visit her grave again bothered Stiles a great deal. He felt like he had abandoned her, even though the illness that had taken her had made her so terribly cruel. Father and son had moved to Beacon Hills soon after the fire that had destroyed the Hale House to serve the new steward. It had been a better life than his father riding from one castle to another, looking for a lord that needed a blade.

Their house could be considered small with but one main room, a room for his father, and a room for himself. A tiny stable to the side of the house held their horses and tack. Stiles stood in the doorway to watch the cliffs fade from red to black in the coming night. 

He saw his father enter the village and head towards the house. Smiling to himself, he went to set the table; Stiles could hear him put his charger away and take care of her tack. It was almost ritual to them now; Stiles knew just how long it would take for his father to finish and come in through the back door.

“Did you eat anything?”

“No,” his father answered. “Since the Argent sent no message ahead of time, the castle’s servants weren’t expecting any feast. I’ve never seen a cook so relieved. There will be one a few days from now; we’ll both attend.” 

Stiles decided not to show his excitement at hearing the news. “The Argents are staying at the Keep?” 

“For this evening, at least. They’ll be moving into the Widow Fleming’s house and the Gordan’s house on the morrow.” 

Stiles looked up. “They need that much space? But what about …”

“Lady Victoria wanted Lady Katherine to have her own place for her and her own men. She gave both of the families a large bag of gold each; I saw it. They could build new houses with that much money!”

Stiles didn’t answer immediately. He thought about the scene between the two women at the keep, and the way Allison talked about them. He was pretty sure that the reason Lady Victoria wanted Lady Katherine away from her wasn’t because of tight quarters.

Stiles did not blame Lady Victoria in the slightest. He had seen up close the vicious hunter behind the jovial mask of Lady Katherine; he had no desire to spend any time in the woman’s presence. The Argent women were all fierce in their own way. Lady Victoria had a regal bearing and an air of cold command that would rival any of the kings that Stiles had read about. Allison had ridden with three men she barely knew in a place she had never been and wasn’t even the slightest bit afraid. But Lady Katherine …

Lady Katherine was a monster. Stiles’ only evidence had been her callous treatment of a dog and her half-mock threats against him and Scott, but in his gut, he knew that she was someone who would kill a person rather than argue with them. 

It was amazing that someone who seemed as nice as Lady Allison could possibly share the same blood as that huntress.

Stiles finished putting out the stew and the bread and sat down across from his father. Ser Noah looked up and gave him a wide-eyed, slanted-mouth look of disbelief. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and went to retrieve the barrel of mead. He poured a drink for himself and for his father. “There you go.”

“We had a bargain, son. What was it?” 

“I don’t try to keep you from your drink, and you won’t drink too much. Sorry, father.”

“A knight is only as good as his vow. It’s better to be dead than forsworn.” His father’s voice took on the same tone that he always did when imparting these lessons. It sounded like he was repeating it from memory. Ser Noah’s father had taught him this, who had been taught by his father, who had been taught by his father.

Stiles would never tell his father this, but he wasn’t sure that was true. He could think of many reasons why he might wish to break a vow made, and he had never had to make one. Oh, he had sworn to be blood brothers with Scott, but how could the world ever put him in a position where he would he would have to break that oath?

These thoughts made him uncomfortable. “What do you think of them?”

“The Argents?”

“To be honest, other than the fact that it seems that Lady Allison and Lady Katherine have been trained as if they were boys, I cannot tell much. You have not spent as much time with Southern lords as I have, being so young when he came here. They hold themselves more distant than the Northern lords.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Neither. As I’ve always said, there are good lords and bad ones, just as there are good peasants and bad ones. A Northern lord could know your name and the names of your family and understand what ills trouble you, or a Northern lord could play favorites among the subjects they like the most. A Southern Lord might never know your name and see you as a piece on the board of the Great Game, or they could enforce the laws fairly and justly no matter who it is.”

Stiles thought about it and then shared his information. “I don’t like the Lady Katherine.”

“Is this one of your feelings?”

“Yes and no.” Stiles played with his stew with his spoon. “Something rubs me the wrong way with her. I feel like she could do anything; I feel like she’s done anything. But it’s not simply a feeling.” Stiles went on to explain with great animation the incident in the woods. “She’s cruel, and she’s not ashamed to be cruel.”

His father was staring at him in, what shocked Stiles, agreement. “I cannot gainsay it. But you need to be careful and never say this to anyone who would tell the Argents. And you must never say it where anyone loyal to them could overhear you, and that includes Scott.”

“Scott would never bear tales about me!”

“He’s a commoner in Ser David’s service. He might not have any choice. I know how sometimes it feels that you must bow and scrape under the Whittemores, but that is nothing to the power that the Argents possess. They could have Scott put to the test if they wished.”

Stiles couldn’t imagine it. “Scott wouldn’t give me away, even if he was tortured.”

“I’m sure Scott is a loyal friend, but even he might be willing to talk if he was shown the rack or even tortured. It’s better not to place him in that position.” 

“They’d torture a kennel master to find out what a squire has said about them? That seems a little extreme, don’t you think?”

Ser Noah looked down at his mead and then finished off the glass in one long pull. “It’s different up here during the summer. Beacon Hills is not important to anyone. But as the Starks say, winter will come, and then things will change. You know what makes this town special.”

“It’s the only harbor on the Bay of Ice that has never frozen,” Stiles said proudly.

“That means it’s one of the most reliably quick ways to reach over half the North. That means it’s important, and that means it is a piece in the Great Game. And there are people who will do anything to win the Game, even torture innocent people.”

“How do people like the King and Lord Stark permit such things?”

Ser Noah stood up. It was immediate and sudden and it startled Stiles. His father usually did not take his rambling questions so seriously. 

“I’ve never told you about my father, have I?” 

“No.” Stiles shook his head. Even when his mother was still alive, they had never spoken about it. 

“Our family once held land. Your grandfather Elias was a banner of House Baratheon. Both he and I fought in Robert’s Rebellion.”

“We were the King’s men?” Stiles eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“We were. Ser Elias was considered one of the best siege masters in Westeros. His mind was sharp, like yours, and he could argue with maesters about all sorts of knowledge. But it was in the creation of siege equipment that he was the most skilled. King Robert felt fortunate to have him on his side.” 

Stiles had all sorts of questions. His father had been of the right age to fight in the Rebellion, but he had never spoken of it. What battles had he seen? What sieges he took part in?

“My father, in spite of all this, was a terrible man. During the early days of the Rebellion, the army marched close to our home. I had longed to see it again, so we visited. While there, my mother and father quarreled — to this day I know not what the argument was about — and my father beat my mother until she could neither walk nor speak. I have never seen such damage done to a woman and that woman still live, before or since. When he would not stop, I drew my sword against my father.” 

Stiles’ eyes grew wide. 

“Such a thing could not be tolerated during time of war. I was brought before Lord Robert. What do you think happened? What would be justice?”

“You should have been forgiven and my grandfather punished. No man should beat a woman like that.” 

“And, yet, that would deny the Rebellion with a siege master.”

“Who cares?”

“A lord must care, Stiles. The difference between vengeance and justice is the balance of mercy and wisdom. Yes, my father had done a terrible, terrible thing, but his skills and knowledge could possibly save the lives of both ally and enemy alike by ending the war quicker. To right the wrong against my mother, my father should have paid with more than that, but it was wisdom to spare him.” 

Stiles did not like that all. “So they let him go?” 

“Yes. They ordered that my mother be sent back to her family, yet she retain all title and right as my father’s wife. Other than that, he was still free and still respected.”

“And what happened to you?”

“As I said, they valued the balance of mercy and wisdom. By the law, I should have been, at the very least, stripped of my sword and honor and cast out. I could have been made to take the Black. I could have been killed. But Lord Robert saw why I did it, so he simply ordered my father to disown me. I have a right to his name, but none to his lands or titles.”

Stiles felt the frown appear on his lips. “But you were only doing the right thing.”

“Yes. To right the wrong done to my mother would have hurt many, many others. To stick closely to the law would have wronged me. That is what a ruler must do, even the ruler of a small land such as this; they must forge justice out of chaos. And the more power you have, the more land you control, the more difficult that task becomes. I’m content to protect the people of this city, and leave the matters of the Great Game to more ambitious folk.”

“So you are saying that I should assume that the more power a lord has, the less freedom they have to do the right thing?” 

“Yes. The best way to survive the Game is not to play. If there’s any lesson I hope I can successfully teach you, my son, it’s that one.”


	5. Lord Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is a discussion of abuse in this chapter. The modern world is more enlightened, and there was a time when a child was considered almost as if they were the property of their parents. In my imagined conformity to the setting, I write the abuse as such, though it is not meant to be supported.

**Scott**

Scott McCall had a problem.

As it began, the problem hadn’t been particularly serious, dangerous, or manageable. It did have the potential to become all three.

The problem was the Lady Allison. 

After the excitement of the wildling raid and Lady Katherine’s ruthless hunt, Scott had looked forward to returning to the peaceful habits of the kennel and the stable. Beacon Hills had always been a quiet place; everyone talked about the Hale Fire because it had been the only big thing to happen since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Contrary to Stiles’ belief in his friend’s desire for adventure, Scott valued the calm of his village. When you could die any day because you might not be able to breathe, all you wanted to do was to wake up, to do your work, and to go to bed in order to wake up once more very day. The life he had now was safe, it was a life he enjoyed, and he made enough coin in this life to help his mother out and once in a while go to the tavern with Stiles. He’d be selfish to ask for more. 

Except suddenly he wanted to ask for … more. He had started to see the lady everywhere, all the time. Of course, he did not really see her everywhere, all the time; it simply felt like it. He did see her more than he thought he would, even after the Argents moved to houses in the village. Allison preferred the keep and the woods beyond it. He’d watch her as he exercised the horses, stalking into the trees. He started to keep the horses out as long as he could, hoping to see her.

Scott could not stop thinking about her. He thought about her when he was working, he thought about her as he was taking his medicine, and he thought about her while he was lying in bed, Maiden forgive him.

She was different than any woman that he had ever met before. She was tall and moved with the grace of a cat. Her hair, when she hadn’t bound it back, fell like a black curtain over her shoulders. When she laughed, it sounded like a crystal bell, and her smile was prettier than a thousand flowers.

Yes, it sounded ridiculous, and Stiles never failed to tell him so. But Scott would swear before the Old Gods and the New that it was true.

What made it worse was that she was kind. Now, the only great folk he had seen talk to common people before had been the Whittemores, and they were seldom mean to their servants — except for Ser Jackson, who was often short-tempered with everybody. The difference was that the Whittemores were clearly little interested in their servants beyond the jobs they performed. Allison, on the other hand, made sure to learn the staff’s names as well as what function they served. And while she did it, she always sounded sincerely interested in who they were and what they did. 

So, yes, Scott had a problem. 

He would have liked to have said that the Lady Allison was as different from her aunt as night was from day, but if someone spent as much time as he did observing them both from afar, they couldn’t deny how much they were alike. Both were braver than most women — scratch that, most anyone — he had met. Lady Katherine pushed around men who to Scott seemed little more than well-dressed bandits and were clearly far stronger than she was. Lady Allison walked up to complete strangers on the road and talked to them like she would not fetch an enormous ransom if they kidnapped her. It was true that both of them were trained in combat, but Scott had seen fully armored knights exercise caution around strangers. Allison and Katherine simply weren’t going to let anyone tell them what they could and couldn’t do.

Anyone except, of course, for the Lady Victoria. She was the only person that Scott had seen who had thwarted the Lady Katherine from doing something that she had wanted to do. It might have been that she was of a higher rank in House Argent, but Scott wasn’t sure that was how their house worked. It was more likely that Lady Victoria might have been hardest person Scott had ever met; she could have been made of stone. She watched people as if they had been waiting in line for them to disappoint her — even her own daughter. Yet, when he observed Lady Victoria and Lady Allison interacting there was always a powerful undercurrent of affection, reserved for only between them.

One day, when Scott had least expected it, Lady Victoria had shown up at his room on the outside of the keep. There had been a knock, and he had expected Stiles or maybe a messenger from Ser David. Instead, it was Lady Victoria, standing there as if he _should_ have been expecting her. 

“M’lady.” Scott managed to remember the proper form of address even as his mind scrambled to figure out why she was there.

“You’re Scott, aren’t you?” Her voice was just a hair away from it being an accusation.

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Show me the stables and the kennels.” Scott had hurried to fulfill that command immediately; he hadn’t even bothered to put on his boots. She must have noticed it, but she never mentioned it through-out the entire tour. Maybe she was used to the effect she had on people. Luckily for him, she also must have been pleased by what she saw.

“You’re doing a good job, Scott. Keep it up.” Then she had walked away as if this was a regular thing and not a surprise inspection by a member of the nobility. Scott felt lucky that he was still breathing.

All-in-all, the Argents had certainly made his supposed-to-be-quiet life far too interesting.

On this particular morning, Scott was taking care of Bruiser while he thought about his problem. Bruiser was a mastiff; the largest mastiff in the kennel and probably the largest dog in this fief. Ser David favored him when they went after larger prey, such as bears and wolves. On a hunt the previous week, led by Lady Katherine and one which Scott had been grateful not to accompany, Bruiser had stumbled into a daggerthorn stand. These vicious plants were aptly named, and one thorn had sunk deep into the mastiff’s hock. Panicking, the dog had struggled before someone could get it out. It was the dog’s luck that Ser David had accompanied the hunt; Scott was sure that if he hadn’t, Bruiser would have gone the way of Walker.

He had cared for the mastiff ever since it had been brought back. As Maester Alan had taught him, he could tell that the wound would not require the dog to be put down. With time and care, Bruiser would be back up to fit shape. However, Scott had muzzled the dog and convinced him to lie down that morning; he had to change the bandages and clean the wound. Dogs didn’t understand that bandages were for their own good, so as a result they had to be seen to daily.

“There, boy.” Scott voice soothed the animal. Bruiser, like most of the animals in the kennel, trusted him. “This won’t take long. Be a good boy and lay there.” 

He wished he could have done without the muzzle, but animals reacted to pain in certain ways. No matter your intentions, their first instinct when someone hurt them was to lash out. Scott had no desire to experience the power of Bruiser’s jaws. 

It made the task take longer than it had to be, but Scott kept petting the mastiff as he worked the bandage off with a short but sharp knife and rub in a salve that would help the wound heal quicker. Bruiser growled a few times even with Scott’s encouragement; this couldn’t have been comfortable for the dog. 

Finally, Scott had tied off the stiff cloth. “Good boy. What a good boy.” He helped Bruiser to his feet. “Maybe in a week or so you won’t have to wear this at all. We’ll see.” 

As the mastiff trotted off, Lady Allison said from behind him. “You’re really good with them.”

Scott nearly toppled over in surprise; that would have been supremely mortifying. Instead, he just stumbled a bit, looking only partly like a fool instead of entirely like a fool.

“M’lady.” He lowered his head once he had regained his composure.

“You don’t treat them like our kennel master back home.” She observed. She had somehow gotten so very close without him noticing. Her closeness did something to his heart.

“Uhm.” Scott replied and immediately felt like throwing himself into the Bay of Ice. He had to think of something to say. “I try my best.”

Lady Allison favored him with a brilliant smile. “I like your way better. You almost treat them as if they were people.”

Scott winced; it was something that Maester Alan had had to caution him about. When caring for animals, both physically and emotionally, it was important never to confuse them for people. They would not react as a person would and they should not have to; it was not fair to them to expect that. He bit his lip though; he didn’t want to fling Allison’s compliment back in her face. “Your kennel man at home must have a larger kennel to deal with. I love my dogs, but it helps that I don’t have that many of them.”

She smiled again and Scott felt a little panic rise in his throat; he wasn’t sure what she was smiling about. So, he simply smiled back.

“Anyway.” She straightened up as if remembering something. “I was wondering if you could tell me where Ser Jackson is?”

“Oh. He’s practicing.” 

“A little late in the day to be practicing, isn’t it?”

Scott widened his eyes. She was actually asking him to comment on a knight. “Ser Jackson is very dedicated to being the best knight he can be.”

Allison pursed her lips as she thought about it, and Scott tried desperately not to stare at them. “So, is there some place he practices? I’ve been through the keep.”

“He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he practices. There’s a clearing in the woods south of here where he likes to go.” 

“Take me there.”

Scott froze. The last time someone other than his father had disturbed Jackson there, he had boxed their ears. He scrambled for a way to explain that he shouldn’t, but suddenly he found his legs moving in that general direction. Bruiser decided to accompany them.

The trees in this part of the Wolfswood were mostly stands of birch interspersed between old oak trees. This hollow was near a gentle stream, and trees shielded it from prying eyes. Scott knew the path; he had been ordered to help Ser Jackson set it up.

As they were walking, Lady Allison did a terrible thing, one that Scott had hoped she’d never do. She started asking him about himself.

“Were you born here in Beacon Hills?”

“Yes, m’lady. I … I’ve lived here all my life.” That seemed safe enough for him to say to her.

“I’m surprised you’ve chosen to remain here. I’m told your father is a ship captain. You don’t want to see the world?”

Scott couldn’t help but blush. She must have asked about him. “No. I’m good here.”

“Most of the young men I know at your age dream of adventure. They want to go see the Wall or Essos or someplace exotic.”

Scott nodded to her to show that he understood, but he decided he would not tell her that he didn’t want to have anything to do with his father. He understood that being a captain meant long hours at sea, but he had seen other captains have families and lives on shore. His father, as the years had passed, had spent less and less time with his mother and him. 

“Is it because of your illness?” Allison asked. She didn’t sound like she was judging him or feeling sorry for him.” 

“Partly.”

“I wasn’t told much about it.”

“My lungs are weak; sometimes they just stop working and I can’t breathe, m’lady.” Scott always felt a little ashamed by it; other men weren’t so pathetic. “Sometimes I come across certain parts of the forest or when a fever hits me. Sometimes all I have to do is run too hard.”

“That’s terrible.”

Any other time, Scott would have been overjoyed to hear such concern for him in Allison’s voice but not this time. “I can do my work. I just have to make sure I don’t work too hard, and I take my moonflower every night.”

Allison looked like she was going to say something else, but they came over the crest of the hill to the clearing that Ser Jackson used. The knight was down below, practicing his sword blows on a straw dummy. He was using his shield as well, even though no one was swinging back.

Scott felt a stab of jealousy slice through his breastbone and deep into his heart. He looked down at Ser Jackson, stripped to the waist and sweating in the cool afternoon. How could someone as high as Lady Allison ever look at someone like him when someone like Ser Jackson was around. Jackson was beautiful, talented, and an anointed servant of the realm. 

Even being jealous was foolish. Lady Allison was part of a noble house. Even if she could look at him, it would mean nothing. He would never have the status to even touch her, let alone look her straight in the eye.

Lady Allison had made her way to the knight’s make-shift training ground. She walked heavily so he would hear her, contrary to the way she had startled Scott earlier. 

Jackson whirled around, looking like he was about to bite someone’s head off. When he saw it was Lady Allison, he bit it back. “My lady. How did you find me?”

“Oh, I had Scott show me where you were.” She gestured toward the top of the ridge what Scott is standing. “Do you mind?” 

“Oh. Not at all.” The glare the knight shot Scott bore the lie to that statement. 

Allison walked over to the practice dummy and put her hand to it. “From what many have told me, you take your practice seriously.”

“Too seriously, to hear my father speak of it.”

“I would never gainsay your father …”

“He thinks I should be content to be the best knight west of Winterfell.”

Allison smiled and picked up one of Jackson’s practice swords. “And what would make you content?”

Scott had not been dismissed, but the pair of them seemed to be having a discussion without remembering he was present. Bitterly, he leaned up against an oak tree, petting Bruiser’s head. She might remember him when they were done; she might not.

“To be honest, I’m not sure that anything would make me content, Lady Argent. Contentment does not lead to great deeds. When we read the stories of the great men of our day, which one of them was content to remain as they were?”

“Oh?” She chuckled, playfully. “You think you’re to be a great man?”

“I wish to be. I plan to make myself one.”

Scott bit his tongue rather than sigh impertinently at the knight’s words.

“Let me see how good you are?” 

Jackson glanced up at Scott. “I don’t think the kennel boy knows how to use a blade.”

Scott pushed himself off the tree. He didn’t, but he would be willing to try. He knew himself to be an idiot like that.

Allison brought the practice sword she was wielding into a double-handed grip. “Sparring with someone with no knowledge of the blade would hardly be a challenge. If we’re to wed as mother intends, I’d like to know that my future husband can handled himself.”

Jackson gave her a smile and a salute. “I shan’t go easy on you.”

“Perhaps it is I who shan’t go easy on you?”

Scott did not stay to watch them spar. He reeled from the knowledge that Allison, this beautiful girl he had become not a little obsessed by, might be wed to Jackson Whittemore. He couldn’t stand there; he had to be elsewhere. Anywhere else.

**Stiles**

In at least one way, Stiles was like everyone else in the village: he never went to the barrows if he could help it. The Stranger could visit you at home at any time; It stalked among the homes and in the woods and on the seas. Why would anyone want to go to Its domain? But Stiles could not avoid the place today for he had an errand entrusted to him by his father.

The barrows had been built up the coast, Woodside, at least a mile away from the village. It could not be seen from the tallest house. It couldn’t be seen from the top of the cliffs. You could go days and days without even remembering it was even there. But people died. And when they died, no one could miss the long slow funeral train wind its way up the old stone pathway that led to the hidden place in the woods.

That was the path Stiles was riding now. The heavy stones marking it were worn smooth; they were even older than the paving stones for the village’s two main streets. Those were frequently replaced as heavy carts wore at them and as accidents had cracked them. The stones for the barrow-path had never known the touch of a chisel, being natural stone polished smooth by thousands of feet walking across them over hundreds of years.

Three enormous piles of stone told you had reached the domain of the dead. They were great barrows raised when the First Men carved homes from the wilderness from the Children of the Forest. Around and between them were clustered the tombs and graves of those who did not wish to be interred with the rest of the dead beneath the dark stone piles. 

But Stiles wasn’t going to visit a grave this evening. Instead, he went to the small, ramshackle house that crowded itself between the graves and the woods, as if frightened to go too far one direction or the other. He tied his horse to the convenient post there, dismounted, and walked up to the front door. There was no need to be shy.

Isaac answered the door on the second knock. Stiles could never keep the frown from his face when he saw what newest bruise the gravedigger’s son was sporting. It was a mystery to the village why Isaac endured his father’s beatings. He was taller than his father, his shoulders made broad by digging the graves and moving the barrow stones. Yet, as far as anyone could tell, he must have stood there as he let his father pour his sodden wrath out upon him. 

The village scorned what the elder Lahey did, but Isaac was his son, and there was nothing they could do. Everyone remembered what had happened when the septon had tried to urge gentleness. No one wanted that to happen again. Instead, everyone waited until for one dark night when the brute would disappear into one of his graves; no one would look for him.

“Sorry to disturb you, Isaac, but I have the fee for the wildlings.” 

“Let me get my father.” 

“Do you have to?” Stiles proffered the bag of coins. He had no personal urge to speak with the old man.

Isaac simply nodded and let him into the house. For such a small building, it was almost more hallways than rooms, and Stiles felt closed in. Like he had been buried. 

The old man was complaining even before he reached the front door. “It’s bad enough that you’ve come at this time of the day. Why must I be burdened with you?” 

“The Father teaches patience,” Stiles replied merrily. “And should I come back after you’re completely in your cups?”

Lahey’s fist curled in menace but the man stopped as Stiles’ hand dropped to his sword. He could beat his son all he liked, but if he raised his hand against a knight’s squire, Stiles was well in his rights to respond to violence with violence. Everyone in the village knew that Stiles was no good at swordplay, but a sword beat bare hands any time, no matter how bad the wielder.

“Give me my coin.” Lahey thrust out his hand. 

Stiles considered briskly handing it over and going, but he was not feeling charitable. “I’d like to inspect the work first, so I may give a proper report to the Lady Victoria should she ask.” 

The elder gravedigger’s jaw worked in frustration. “Isaac will take you to it.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. He thought about forcing the man to come with him, but the truth was he didn’t want to spend any more time with this beast than he had to. “Very well.” He handed over the silver and turned. He didn’t wait to see if Isaac was following him, though he heard footsteps.

They walked through the gathering gloom towards the barrows themselves.

“I’m sorry.” Stiles broke the silence.

“For what?”

Stiles didn’t stop to look at Isaac. There was no way to say that he was sorry that your father was horse manure nicely. Instead, he glanced at the sky. “For coming at this time.”

“This was as good as time as any. My father was … unprepared.”

“Your father seems often unprepared.”

“Please, don’t. You’ll just make things worse.” Behind him, Isaac took in a sharp breath, as if he had only then realized what he had said. 

“I don’t know why you suffer such things. You’re a man now.” Stiles barreled along.

Isaac turned to the left to a stone marker on the very far edge of the graves. There were no names upon it, only a date. 

“You crafted a marker?”

“Seemed only fair. They were people.”

“They were wildlings,” Stiles pointed out. “They killed a farmer and his family, and a merchant and his son on the road.”

Isaac shrugged. “People do what they have to do.”

“Some people do what they _think_ they have to do.”

“What makes you think that there’s a difference? It’s easy to look at them and judge from your home and your family. You’re a squire! You risk nothing to say — well, they certainly had another choice. Maybe they didn’t feel that they did? Maybe they were afraid? After all, they left their home, maybe their families, maybe everything had ever known, to come down here where people tell stories about them being madmen and monsters.”

“If they come down and slaughter innocent people, they are monsters. Maybe up there beyond the Wall they were people like you’d meet in the village or off one of the ships. If that’s true, it’s sad. They let something drive them — maybe it was fear or something else — down here and they became monsters.”

Isaac sneered. “It’s easy to judge them, is it?”

Stiles shrugged. “It’s easy to judge _them_. They’re dead.”

Stiles went back to his horse, leaving Isaac standing in the fading sun.

**Maester Alan**

Maester Alan placed the heavy book on the table with as much gentleness as he could muster. The book was bound in wood and leather and very solid, yet he knew what was contained within was important, so there was no harm in treating it gently.

“Those are the accounts?” Lady Victoria pulled out a chair and sat down before the book.

“For this summer, my lady, all nine years of it.” 

“Sit, maester. We might be at this all day, and it would be cruel for you to stand for all of it.” 

Alan pulled up a chair next to her, folding his hands in his lap. Lady Victoria opened the books and began reading. He noted that she didn’t skim pages, and she didn’t seem to tire. She examined each line, carefully, as a tracked might do when looking for an escaped fox. 

“There’s not much revenue,” she observed, archly.

“There would not be during summer, my lady. The Hales were not much interested in wealth beyond what they had. They could not help but gather much over the thousands of years that they held this land. What sources of wealth there are come during the winter, as this harbor hosts all the ships coming and going to the Bay of Ice, as you know.”

“I do know that.” Her tone was sour. “I also know that in the years after the fire, Ser David should have done something to increase the wealth of this fief. You should have advised him as such.” 

“Pardon me, my lady, but why would he do that? Life has been like this in Beacon Hills for more than a thousand years.”

Lady Victoria turned a page. “How likely do you think that this manner of life will continue?”

The maester tilted his head to the side. “Are you aware of something of which I am not aware, Lady Victoria?”

“Only the Gods know what will come tomorrow. Would it not be wise to be prepared for what might come rather than to assume that things were always going to be the same? The Hales ruled these lands since before anyone can remember, and they were gone in a fortnight.”

Alan had had one hand resting his lap, and he clenched that fist so hard he might draw blood. He kept the anger from his face. “I wonder if it is possible to be prepared for such a tragedy.”

“It wouldn’t have been possible to prepare for that tragedy. It is possible to be prepared _for tragedy_. It is possible to be prepared for an unforeseen turn of events. The Citadel studies the world; isn’t it the nature of things to stay the same unless you make them stay the same? I would expect that you, maester, should know that.”

It would have been wise to remain silent, Alan would say to himself later. It would have been better not to give vent to the frustration inside, a frustration born from unresolved injustice and from mounting indecision. The raven still waited in his rookery, the one that would bear a message to Peter Hale.

“I know many things. I know that while it is possible to be prepared for natural disasters, it is impossible to be prepared for unnatural ones. For example, how exactly does a noble house prepare for the lady and all her children to be trapped in a burning castle?”

Lady Victoria’s eyes raised to meet his. Alan did not relent, gazing at her with what he hoped was calm imperturbability. They sat there, glaring at each other until the woman finally slammed the ledger shut. 

“By being vigilant. By understanding that there are always people in the world who would take what you have. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Lady Victoria was subtly trying to remind him that his loyalty was to the land and not the castle. The realm recognized this as Argent land, and so he was supposed to serve the Argents. She was also saying she suspected him of harboring loyalties to the Hales — which he did.

“What would suggest I do not agree?” 

She pursed her lips and then glanced around the room to see if anyone was there. “Let me tell you a story of two houses. One was very old, tracing their lineage back to the First Men. The other was not quite as old, but they could trace their family to a time before the Targaryens reached these shores. Both were very respected. The older family was content. They had ruled their land in peace for as long as they could remember and that’s what they intended to do in the future.”

“As you said, contentment does not arise naturally. If this house was content, it worked for it.”

“One of the keys to the family’s wealth was their land. Specifically, a harbor. Everyone knew its strategic value. Yet, the family was caught unprepared when the younger family made a move to take that land from them.”

Alan’s jaw set firmly. “One could argue that there’s no way to be prepared for vile treachery.”

Victoria shrugged. “There are ways to be prepared. I’m tired of talking in circles; I will talk plainly. If you go to the Warden of the North with what I say, I’ll simply deny it. You know what I’m talking about. The Hales could have asked themselves why House Argent would let its first-born daughter marry a remote Northern house.”

“Perhaps it might have been love. Lady Katherine certainly professed it enough.”

“Lady Katherine did as she was told. Lady Talia …”

“You shouldn’t speak as if you knew her. You did not know her.” Alan spoke with firmness. The brazenness of Lady Victoria worked on his self-control. 

For her part, the look on the lady’s face might was one of regret. “Do you think I was involved in the plot to burn the Hales?”

“You are a leader of House Argent.”

“I am a leader, not _the_ leader. You must have sensed the tension between me and Lady Katherine.”

“I did.”

“There are many reasons for that tension. She was meant to secure the Port of Beacon Hills for House Argent’s use in the coming winter. We were looking to control several commodities that flow in and out of the North, most of which come through this town.” Lady Victoria frowned. “It was not my understanding that she was supposed to do so by murdering the entire Hale family.”

“Then why didn’t you come forward-”

Victoria’s sharp laugh cut him off. “Loyalty to your house is paramount, _everywhere_. Even you understand that. But I will fix what I can.”

“It was your idea to marry Ser Jackson to your daughter.” 

“My house will still have influence over the harbor, and a Hale will rule the land that should be his. Now that Lord Stark is Hand to the King, he can easily get King Robert to legitimize the knight’s claim to the Hale name.”

Maester Alan stood up. “That doesn’t balance the scales for all those people who died that night. Good people.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Victoria studied him. “Revenge is a serious burden to carry for someone with no family such as yourself.”

“It is.” Alan could speak with utter conviction. “No matter how much I desire that someone answer for that crime, I shall take no personal revenge. I am a maester, bound by service. I provide counsel to the lords of the land whenever it is needed.” 

“Good. I’m glad.” Lady Victoria opened up the ledger once again. “Now that we have cleared the air, we can get back to business.”

Alan sat back down with her and went over the accounts. He would take no personal revenge. He would simply provide the people to whom he held loyalty the means to seek redress. He’d send the raven to Peter the moment he could get away.


	6. Cripples, Bastards, and Broken Things

**Boyd**

Vernon Boyd hated the old driftwood pilings of the docks at Red Harbor. He hated the smell of the dead fish spilling out of the holds. He hated the chanties called out as sailors furled the sails. He hated the face of the dock master with whom he was talking, with only three teeth in his head and eyes so rheumy he looked like he had poured milk in them.

“Answer’s the same as yesterday and the day before that. No ship for you.”

“There has to be some captain who needs an extra hand.” Boyd clenched his fists at his sides to keep from strangling him.

“No captain here is going to hire some soft fool from the Green lands for their ship.”

Boyd scowled at the old man, though he wasn’t sure that the dock master was even paying attention to him anymore. “Do I look like I’m soft, old man?”

“Can’t say that you do. You look strong. You look tough. You just don’t look Ironborn.”

A defeated sigh escaped Boyd’s lips; it was the same story every day. “At least tell me if there’s some work for me today. Even if I’m not Ironborn, I still have to eat.”

“Might be, lad. Might be. I’ll call you if your back is needed. Cheer up, someday a mainlander ship will come here, or you’ll earn enough working to take passage.”

Boyd returned to what had become his favorite spot over the last three months. It was a low stone wall, maybe as tall as his knees, separating the main thoroughfare of Red Harbor from the docks proper. It was as comfortable a perch as he was going to find.

Whole days could pass and not a single person would talk to him. The merchants and the teamsters were always busy; he didn’t begrudge them that: if you had work to do, you did it. But the captains and the sailors would barely look at him, and while the merchants would nod at him if he caught their eyes, they had no good news for him. He made enough unloading ships not to starve, but he wasn’t a dock worker. He was a sailor, and a sailor needed to be on the sea.

When he had been left behind by his last ship, he hadn’t even been angry. He had been sick with some unknown malady, and sickness was a fearful thing in tight quarters. He’d heard stories himself of a sailor coming down with some illness, only for the whole crew to be stricken by it. Boyd didn’t blame the captain, even though the vessel would probably be back in Stonehelm by now. He wouldn’t be missed in Stonehelm; he didn’t have many ties there. He hadn’t had many ties anywhere after he had left his family’s farm in the Stormlands. 

But at least there, he wouldn’t have felt so alone.

Each day he journeyed from the flophouse where he tossed and turned each night, the one with scratchy blankets and the overwhelming stench to look for work. Each day he came with hope that there was a ship that would sign him on — either an Ironborn or a mainland ship, he didn’t care — so he could leave this island and its bitter, nasty people. Every day he was forced to remain, he could feel their bitterness seep into the bones.

Even though he had little to occupy his mind but his resentment, he still didn’t hear the woman come up behind him. She cleared her throat to get his attention. 

She was only a little younger than she was, and she was very beautiful: taller than most Ironborn, with long brown hair highlighted in gold, and large, warm brown eyes. She must have blood from somewhere else with those looks, but she was dressed as an Ironborn raider, with tight breeches, high boots, and a sleeveless leather tunic. She could have been studying him for some time before he turned around. 

“May I help you?”

Boyd wasn’t going to be intimidated. He had learned that being intimidated here was an invitation for someone to take advantage of you.

“You may, but I’m more likely to be of help to you. I heard you’re looking for a ship.”

“I am. But I thought your people didn’t like sailing with mainlanders”

“They’re not my people.” She said it with a vicious conviction. “Have you sailed on a knarr?”

“I’ve usually served on bigger ships, but I’ve handled small coast traders like them. I’ve seen enough knarr in this port to know how they're different.”

The woman nodded as if satisfied. “May I sit?” He gestured to a spot next to him and she took it without hesitation. “And do you know how to navigate?”

“I wasn’t the navigator on any ship on which I sailed, but I learned how to do it. I can navigate by the stars in a pinch, but I could do it better if I had a sextant.”

“Good. You’ll have one. I’m putting together a crew.” 

Boyd considered her. “Most Ironborn won’t even look at me when filling out their crews.”

“I’m not most Ironborn, and I don’t really want the type of people they do. I need sailors, not reavers. I don’t need trouble, and that’s all they cause with their ‘iron price’ bullshit. They think they’re brave, but really they’re just stupid.”

He smiled broadly. At least, he thought he could get along with her. “My name’s Vernon Boyd.”

“Malia Pyke.” She smiled back without guile. “You haven’t asked how much you’re going to get paid.”

“I haven’t. How much I’m going to get paid?”

“Ten silver stags.”

Boyd whistled. “Where are we going? That’s a lot of money.”

“It’s not an easy trip. We’ll be headed to the mouth of the Milkwater, near Westwatch-By-the-Bridge.”

“The Wall!” Boyd grimaced. “In a knarr? Why?”

She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. She wasn’t going to answer, but it was ten silver stags and a way off the Iron Islands.

A little voice inside him warned that this might be something he didn’t want to be involved in, Boyd was desperate. No matter what it was, at least he’d have someone to talk to. “When are we leaving?”

**Stiles**

Stiles watched the candles being lit in the windows of the two homes that House Argent had purchased in the village. In the house where Lady Victoria and Lady Allison lived, only a few lights had been lit, frugally. They wouldn’t waste candles on rooms with no one in them. On the other hand, the house where Lady Katherine lived had candles lit in every room.

 _It’s like she’s afraid of the dark,_ Stiles thought to himself, uncharitably. _If I was as cruel as her, I would be, too._

Stiles believed in both the Old Gods and the New. He didn’t believe that they answered the prayers of people like him, and he didn’t believe that they bent down to correct every little sin that had been committed by humankind. He believed that they existed, like all the best human lords did, to lead by example. In this case, the gods knew when to leave humanity alone. He had read many histories where rulers became obsessed with controlling every aspect of their subjects’ lives. It never ended well. He liked to think that the gods were wiser than that. 

In light of that, he wondered if, for all her words in the forest, Lady Katherine feared that she might one day be called to answer for her choices. It only seemed fair to him, and he didn’t really care if the authority calling her to account were the Old Gods, the Seven, or Lord Stark himself. 

He found himself thinking much more kindly of the other Argent ladies. Lady Allison was kind and polite but still strong. She was also more than a little sad. The rumors of her betrothal to Ser Jackson had spread throughout the village, and Stiles wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone. There was also her growing fondness for his best friend. It was obvious if you knew how to look, and if Stiles could see it, it wouldn’t be too long before her betrothed saw it or worse, her mother saw it.

Lady Victoria was easily as intimidating as Lady Katherine, but he was less afraid of her because of the woman’s discipline. Half the time, the huntress seemed to act on whatever whim occurred to her, but the senior Argent remained very deliberate. She had not even been in the homes for a week and had already expanded and improved the stables and had already ordered new iron-reinforced heavy wooden shutters for the first-floor windows. 

It made him more nervous for his friend. 

He watched the home where Lady Katherine and her disguised thugs stayed from his vantage point. He would do it for a few more hours until it was late enough that he had to go home and get some sleep.

“I don’t know. I can’t see anything interesting over there.”

Stiles let out a very unmanly shriek and nearly threw his sword into the harbor getting it out of its scabbard. It was still loose and flailing in his grip when he spun around to see Erica staring at him.

“What are you doing?”

Erica purses her lips. “I’m trying to figure out what you’re staring at.”

“Don’t sneak up on a man with a sword!”

“What type of squire allows a crazy beggar-woman to sneak up on him? You were the person so intently staring at nothing that you didn’t hear me.” 

Stiles sheathed his sword and crossed his arms. “You could have cleared your throat or something.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to.”

“And you’re not crazy. You shouldn’t say that about yourself.”

“I _am_ a beggar.”

He frowned with distaste. He came close to her, closer than any knight would come to a beggar to show her just how much he disliked it. “That’s not your fault. You shouldn’t speak ill of yourself like that.”

“I’ll speak ill of who I wish,” she snapped back. “I’m far more interested in what has you staring at the houses of our new overlords. Have you fallen for one of the ladies?”

“No.” He scoffed. “Not at all. One of them is married, one of them is evil, and one of them is betrothed.”

“You should tell Scott that.”

Stiles grimaced. “You’ve noticed as well?”

“He follows her around like a puppy, and she’s more than happy to have him wagging at her heels.” 

“It’s going to end badly,” Stiles sighed. “I wonder if I could get him to stop.”

Erica laughed long and with hard with a touch of bitterness. “Everything ends badly. Maybe he’ll get to be happy before it does. You still haven’t told me why you were staring at Houses Argent.”

Stiles turned from her to face the lighted houses across the water. “Have you ever stood under the sun and blue skies and felt the gale coming, Erica?” 

She didn’t answer, only hummed in agreement.

“I can feel something coming, something to do with the Argents, and when it arrives it’s not going to make anyone happy. Lady Katherine is terrible but no fool, and she didn’t risk coming up here with her own cadre of thugs when the Warden of the North despises her because the hunting’s good. She’s up to something.”

“What do you think it might be?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles gripped the pommel of his sword so hard in frustration that his knuckles turned white. “I have nothing but fragments of a broken puzzle and a feeling in my gut. I just hope it has nothing to do …” 

Erica grunted as if she expected him to go on. 

“Ahhh. Ahhh, no. This is great. Only it’s not great if what I right now thought of is true. Not in any possible variation. If she is here for what I think she is, and I can’t tell you what I think it is because I promised I wouldn’t, it will create all sorts of danger, which is simply not just great but very, very terrible.”

The woman chuckled. “Take a breath, Stiles. You’re making little sense.”

Stiles did just that. He forced himself to release the grip on his sword. “I have to find Scott. Then I have to talk to the maester.”

**Allison**

Allison counted the strokes out loud. “… ten, eleven, twelve …” She had learned at her mother’s feet that any good thing requires both hard work and discipline; beauty was not exempt from this rule. For years, she had made it a nightly ceremony to work out her hair with a fine brush.

When she had been younger, she had protested that she didn’t care about her hair; she didn’t want to be like all the other girls. She wanted to be like her Aunt Kate. Aunt Kate got to ride across the land and hunt with the King and compete with men in archery. Allison had been quite stubborn about it, but that had only lasted until she attended a ball. There, she saw Kate — or rather Lady Katherine — appear in what had to be the most beautiful gown Allison had ever seen, Kate’s golden hair done up just like every lady had been styling it at King’s Landing. 

Her mother had caught her staring at Kate in the throes of utter surprise. “Your aunt has been called one of the most beautiful women in the Westerlands. She can dance as well as she can track.” Victoria had never needed to say a word again about her hair.

After that ball, Allison hadn’t complained about her mother’s teachings on how to be a lady, and as she had grown older, she had learned to appreciate when a young man’s eyes followed her around a room. So now she gave her hair forty strokes each night to keep it healthy, since she frequently bound it when she went hunting or riding. 

She started on the next forty strokes after she flipped the pages in the book she was reading.

“How’s my favorite niece doing tonight?” Kate called from the doorway.

“I’m your only niece!” Allison smiled up at her. “I was getting ready for bed.”

“I should leave then.”

“Don’t leave! I haven’t seen you for days. I wish that we’d have gotten a house large enough for all of us.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I don’t think there’s a large enough manor in the North for me and your mother to live in together.”

Allison laughed at that, though she really never understood why there was such animosity between her mother and her aunt. Kate never tried to usurp Victoria’s authority, and she always submitted to whatever Victoria said, if her mother put her foot down. “Mother is designing a brand new castle, so I guess you’ll be living with us eventually.”

“Is she? Did she say where?”

“She talked about clearing out the site of the Hale House. There’s a reason they built there: that gives the best view of the harbor and all approaches.”

Kate laughed out loud. “Of course she would want to do that. Your mother is certainly focused on our family’s goals.”

Allison stopped brushing at what she saw a non-sequitur. “What do you mean by that?”

Her question was ignored as Kate came to sit down beside her on the bed. “What are you reading?”

“Maester Alan lent me a book about the Wolfswood. It’s fascinating.” 

“Hmmm.” Kate didn’t seem to like the Maester much. “History or natural science?”

“Mostly natural science, but it sometimes talks about both the Houses and the people of the Wolfswood.” 

Kate picked up the book without asking. “I never had much time for books. Maesters were stuffy old men who smelled funny to me. I did learn to read at father’s insistence.”

Allison continued to brush her hair as Kate leafed through the book. “What are you looking for?”

“This.” Kate put the book down. Allison had not reached that point yet, but she could see that it discussed the Hale family and the story of their origin. “That’s what your mother and I are focused on.” 

“The Hales? But they’re all dead. We hold the title to the land now.” 

Kate frowned. “If only that were true; not all of them are dead.”

“Well, your husband joined the Night’s Watch. He doesn’t really count, does he?”

Kate nodded absently. “No. He doesn’t really count.”

“Did you love him?” Allison suddenly burst out and then immediately felt embarrassed about it.

Kate’s eyes flew open, and then she started laughing, as if Allison had told the best joke in the whole land. 

“I’m serious!”

“No.” Kate sobered up. “Not even a little. I did what I was told by my father, and I was told to marry a Hale … among other things.” 

“Did you think you could have loved him eventually?”

Kate’s face screwed up. “No. Of course not. Hunters don’t fall in love with the game they hunt. Why would you ask such a question?”

Allison was taken back by the tone of Kate’s voice. It was cold; it was vicious. Allison put it away though; the fire was a tragedy and she had been blamed for it along with her husband. Lord Stark had almost been willing to try her for the crime of murder. She’d have to be upset. 

“Is it about the kennel boy?”

Allison blushed at that, thoughts of Kate’s attitude toward the Hales dwindling in her mind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you don’t? I haven’t seen you spend an awful lot of time talking to him. Or taking long walks in the woods with him?” 

“Kate! He knows Beacon Hills and the lands around it. I don’t, and he’s been teaching me. Don’t you think I should know about the lands I’ll probably help my husband rule? And he’s the kennel master, not a boy.” 

“And he’s cute.” 

Allison lifted her head and stared her aunt straight in the eyes. “He’s a commoner, and I’m betrothed.”

“So he is, and he also has beautiful brown eyes. Admit it.”

“He’s not as handsome as Ser Jackson.” Allison tossed her hair and went back to brushing.

Kate played with the quilt on the bed for a few minutes. “You’re not telling me you’re in love with your betrothed are you? I can see why you would be — what’s not to love?”

Allison put down the brush. “I don’t know.”

“You … don’t know?”

“I like Ser Jackson. He’s attractive. He’s courteous … to me. He’s dedicated to being a knight. He’s a hard worker.” 

“But?”

“He’s never going to be happy here in Beacon Hills or even in the North. He has this vision of himself as a knight at tournaments in the capital. That’s what he wants. That’s what he dreams about. And if he marries me, and we rule this land for House Argent, he’s going to remain far away from there for most of his life.”

Kate reached out and pushed some of Allison’s hair out of her eyes in a gesture of comfort.

“I don’t want to spend my life with someone who is never going to be content when he’s with me.” 

“Maybe you’ll move back down to the Westerlands or King’s Landing?” 

“That would make him content. That wouldn’t make me content. I like it here, far better than either home or King’s Landing.”

“I thought you had close friends in the capital. That Lydia girl?”

“I do. I’ve written her every day, but I don’t want to live there. The city stinks of shift, and it’s filled with people who look at me like they want to kill me. Here, everything is old and new at the same time.”

Kate sighed. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s important that to the family that you marry Ser Jackson. Who cares if he’s dissatisfied after you’re married?”

“Why is it important?” 

“I’m not really supposed to say.”

“Kate, since when do you follow orders unless Grandfather or Mother is making you?”

Her aunt snorted. “More often than you think but not as often as I should. Remember when I said that not all the Hales were dead? Jackson isn’t really the son of Ser David. His birth name is Jackson Snow.”

“He was a noble bastard?”

“He was a Hale bastard. Peter Hale, Lady Talia’s brother, had a taste for travel and no problem leaving a trail of pregnant women in his wake. But one of them was by Lady Cerwyn, a married woman. Talia arranged for the child to be adopted by Ser David.”

“That was very kind of him, but I don’t understand …” Allison puts her hand over his mouth. “He doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know who he is.” 

Kate lowered her voice to a whisper. “No, he does not, and if he did, we could lose control of this land. And if we don’t bring him into the family, we may anyway. The Warden of the North already suspects me of causing the fire that destroyed the Hales. He refused to recognize my claim, but he couldn’t refuse House Argent’s claim. Still, Eddard Stark despises me, and Eddard Stark is now the Hand of the King.”

“So, I’m being married to him to make sure we don’t lose this land.”

“Exactly. If Lord Stark had Jackson Snow legitimized by King Robert as a Hale, this land would be _his_. The family has invested a great deal in making sure we control Beacon Hills.”

Allison stood up and went to the window. “I understand that we all have to make sacrifices for the family …”

“But?” Kate prompted; Allison simply shrugged.

“You can still be happy, Allison. All you need is a little patience. After all, the kennel boy will still be here.”

Allison was shocked and it showed on her face.

“You wouldn’t be the first lady to find comfort in the arms of one of her servants. It’s not uncommon, and far less common than lords fucking every whore and serving girl they can get their hands on. For people like us, marriage is a duty and a chore.”

“I couldn’t do that to Scott.”

“You’re young, Allison. You still think that love matters to anyone but the two people who feel it. It doesn’t. You’re going to marry Ser Jackson. Might as well get as much pleasure out of your life while you have it. Remember though, don’t do anything until after you’ve consummated the marriage with our little hidden bastard.”

Allison felt uneasy. She nodded to show Kate that she heard her, but she didn’t say anything more. Her aunt left soon after.

**Jackson**

It wasn’t that Jackson didn’t know whether he was angry or not. He was angry there was no doubt about it. He clenched and unclenched his hands from where they lay on the table. It was that he wasn’t sure how angry he was. He could be angry enough to scold someone or he could be angry enough to run a sword through someone. Only the Stranger knew for sure.

“You swear that this is true?” He forced the question between gritted teeth.

“I swear it. I saw the way he looks at her, and I’ve seen the way she looks at him. You can’t deny that they spend much time together.”

“Why tell me? Why not talk to her? Or her mother?” 

Lady Katherine looked down and away. “What would I say to her that she doesn’t already know? She’s a grown woman, and I know her mother trained her in what appropriate behavior is for a lady and what isn’t. I don’t want to cause her embarrassment if she’s innocent, and I don’t want to cause her shame if she’s not. But if she’s not, I would also prefer not to bring a stain onto the family name.”

“So you came to me.”

“I did. The kennel master serves your family, at least until the marriage takes place, does he not?”

“Yes.”

“Then an answer presents itself, doesn’t it?”

Jackson took a deep breath. “You want me to handle it.” It wasn’t a question.

“In the end, who cares what happens to some common castle servant? You can find someone else to feed your hounds. On the other hand, there are people throughout Westeros who will care if things between you and Allison sour.” 

Jackson blinked. He was angry but he really hadn’t really expected her to suggest something so vicious as murder.

Lady Katherine nodded sadly and then began to walk away. “After all, if it is true, you’re the injured party here.”

The knight remained where he was after the huntress left. He stared down at the floor and then at the hearth as if inanimate objects had any answers. Finally, he stood up, smoothed his tunic, and went to the armory. There he took a pair of practice swords and a real sword and wrapped them in canvas. 

Scott was cleaning tack out in the yard when Jackson came around the outside of the keep. He looked up as the knight appeared. He seemed so innocent; maybe that was what she liked about him. Jackson hadn’t felt innocent since the day he had killed the wilding in the woods.

“I’ll need my horse and another readied to ride.”

“Yes, milord.” Scott sprang up to quickly and efficiently to get the horses ready. He wasn’t acting as if he were guilty. Jackson waited under and overcast sky until Scott lead them pair out to where he was. 

“Mount up.” Jackson ordered.

“Milord?” 

“You’re riding with me today. You do know how to ride do you?”

“I do, but I don’t understand.” 

“Look, you’re loyal to my father? To this keep?”

At that, Scott looked a little shaken. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Then do as I tell you.”

They rode in silence on the wooded path to his private training area. The only witnesses to their travel were birds and squirrels. Jackson had chosen this glade because it was far enough from the keep and the village — from anywhere really — so they wouldn’t be interrupted. Where they couldn’t even be heard. 

When they reached the training ground, Jackson dismounted and went over to the straw dummy that he had set up here. He had practiced archery with it, and he had practiced his sword form with it. He placed the normal sword he had taken from the armory and his own one up against him and taken up the two practice swords.

“Here. You’ll spar with me.” He shoved the practice sword into Scott’s hands. 

“I … I don’t know how to fight with a sword.”

“You never fought with Stiles with wooden sticks when you were younger?”

“Y-yes. But we were children. We didn’t know what we were doing. I’ve never used a real sword.”

Jackson sneered. “Well, you’re using right now. You may be dumb as a horse’s ass, but you still can figure out how a sword works.”

Scott’s jaw set. The knight smiled as he turned away, crushing the grass with sturdy steps. Jackson held the practice sword up. Its dull edge didn’t even glint with what light made its way through the clouds. Without warning, he turned back to kennel master and attacked, with straight horizontal strokes.

The other man barely got his sword up in time. He managed to deflect the blows, but only barely. His footwork was all wrong, his grip was all wrong, his eyes went to the wrong places. 

Jackson turned and walked away once again, showing his back to Scott. “Are you telling me that Stiles never showed you anything about swordplay? Is he that bad?”

Scott shouted. “Stiles isn’t bad …”

“No, he’s not bad.” Jackson sneered. “He’s terrible. You, at least, have an excuse.” He lunged and made Scott stumble back a few paces. He hadn’t even got his sword up into a guard position. “He doesn’t. His father taught him, and Ser Noah isn’t a novice fighter. I’ve even seen them at it, but I could still take your friend with my eyes closed.” 

Scott seemed angrier at his words against Stiles than the threat of physical harm to him. He retaliated with the clumsiest lunge that Jackson had ever seen. He pushed Scott down to the ground and smacked him on the backside with the flat of the practice blade as he went down. 

“You, I could cut in half.”

Scott rolled to his side and stood up. The look in his face was one of grim determination but also resignation. He couldn’t leave without giving up his position, and even then, Jackson could have him flogged for disobeying an order.

“Finally figuring it out, are you?”

“Milord, I don’t know what I did to offend you.” 

“Maybe I don’t like your taste in friends. Stiles Stilinski is an embarrassment to every person who dreams of knighthood, and yet I’ve had to watch him stumble about here as the North’s worst squire. You’d follow that fool rather than me?”

Scott blinked as he brought his blunt sword up into a position that might laughably be called a guard. “I don’t follow Stiles. He’s my friend.”

Jackson shook his head slowly. “Then you’re as stupid as I thought you were. You’re not his equal. As pathetic a squire as he is, he’s still has a place among those who fight. Unless some great lord took pity on you, you’ll never truly be his friend. If you’re anything, you’re his servant.”

Scott swung the sword with far more force than he had ever done before. He was breathing heavily. Jackson words were having their desired effect.

“That’s more like it, dog boy. Drop the sword.”

Scott defied him, but he still had no skill. Jackson disarmed him with a sharp strike to the backs of his hands and the blade flew to the ground. The knight went over and hefted the real sword he had taken for an armory and tossed it at Scott’s feet. 

“Now, pick that up.”

Scott looked at the blade. Practice swords could cause injury, but they were designed not to kill. The blade at his feet would kill. Scott looked up and for the first time Jackson saw true fear in the other man’s eyes.

“I said, pick it up.” Jackson made it an unmistakable order. He drew his own blade. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because you really are stupid. You don’t understand the way the world really works, dog boy.” He took a step forward and pointed at the blade on the ground and motioned once again. 

“I haven’t done anything to you.”

“Oh, but you have. You insult me. You’re my family’s servant, and yet you follow around that fool. You cast eyes on my betrothed and, in doing so, reach above your station. You’re not my equal, dog boy. So, one more time, pick up the sword; it’d be unchivalrous if I killed an unarmed man, but I think I’d might survive the shame.”

Scott looked down at the blade and then picked it up. “You’re wrong.” 

“Do you take me for a fool? I’ve seen you look at her. I’ve seen her look at you.” Jackson hadn’t actually noticed, but he believed Lady Katherine. Why would she lie? “You desire her.”

Scott’s face screwed up in disbelief. 

“Are you saying you don’t? Answer me.”

The kennel master threw the sword onto the ground. “Lady Allison is as kind as she is beautiful, but nothing has happened between us. She would never betray her family. And even if I wanted it to happen …” His voice grew bitter. “I know my place.”

“That won’t save you.”

“I also know your place.” Scott clenched his hands into fists but kept them at his side. “All you ever wanted to be was a knight; I’ve known that since I first met you. No true knight would kill someone who couldn’t defend themselves. You may not like me and you may not like my friends, but you don’t hate us enough to break your vow, as much as I vow that Lady Allison and I have done nothing evil in the sight of the Maiden.”

Jackson took a step forward. Scott didn’t flinch. The knight turned the sword over studying it and the man before him. 

“If I ever catch you alone with the Lady Allison again, I’ll have you flogged and driven out of Beacon Hills. You can go die in the woods.”

The other man said nothing. 

“You can go now.” 

“Yes, milord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A knarr is a single masted sailing vessel designed for coastal trade.


	7. The Wolf and the Lion

**Lydia**

Lydia shifted the cushion beneath her. The wooden bleachers on which she found herself along with the rest of the upper crust of King’s Landing, were uncomfortable at best. The endless banners surrounding the tournament field flapped in the breeze, and each gust was a gift from the Seven in the summer heat. If her mother, who had taught her deportment, had been there to ask, Lydia would have told her that she was waiting patiently, but that would have been a lie. The first joust should have started an hour before, but something was delaying the start of the second day of the Hand’s tournament.

Still, as impatient as Lydia was, she refused to fidget, so she turned her inner resentment on the crowd surrounding her and her knot of companions. Gossiping brought with it a certain shallow satisfaction, and it was an excellent way to pass the time. The women she had come to the tournament with were mostly of a higher rank than she was, but they floated around her like bees on a flower. If any of the truly powerful nobles of House Tyrell had been there, these companions would have effortlessly moved from Lydia orbit to theirs. But there weren’t any, so Lydia’s natural confidence made her the center of attention.

She was just about to suggest that she and the women listening to her go find some wine to help with the heat, when she saw someone who was far more interesting. Rising from her seat with a light apology to her companions on her lips, she walked down to the fence before the jousting lists. 

“Ser Christopher!” She called out. To get the knight’s attention, she waved her favor at him. 

Ser Christopher Argent was a serious knight of middle years and a married man whom, if the rumors Lydia had heard were to be believed, had never visited a single one of King’s Landing’s brothels. He had also graciously refused an appointment to the Kingsguard, offered to him by Robert on the spur of the moment after he had won a tournament but three years ago. The knight had explained to his king with all due courtesy that he was his father’s only son and that he had a wife and daughter he did not wish to abandon.

Robert had accepted the refusal good-naturedly with a quip about how Sir Christopher’s wife must be a very formidable woman to impart such loyalty. Lady Victoria was rumored to be quite formidable, but the entire court had realized that the refusal was for more circumspect reasons. No one would comment on this openly, but it was obvious that the King had forgotten that the Argents were a vassal of his wife’s family. Christopher’s father sat on Lord Tywin’s council. It would have been awkward for the King when he realized he had offered another Lannister minion a position on his personal guard. The entire court had admired the deft way that Ser Christopher had eased his way out of that possible disaster.

For this tournament, Ser Christopher was armored and prepared for the coming jousts, but he had taken off his helm. When she caught his attention, he studied Lydia as if trying to place her, the action thinning his lips until recognition lit up in his eyes. “Oh. You’re Lydia of House Martin.”

“I am.” Lydia curtsied. “I’m flattered you remember.”

“You're one of my daughter’s closest friends. Of course, I would remember. Though I’m surprised to see you here. Allison told me that you and your mother remained at Highgarden most of the year.”

“We tend to do so, but I am now of age, and Lord Tyrell asked as many court ladies as could be spared to attend the Hand’s Tournament.” She affected that lord’s air of pompous dignity. “He would very much be disappointed if the Knight of Flowers had fewer supporters in the stands than any other knight.” 

Ser Christopher rewarded that with the slightest and the smallest little smile he could give. “Lord Tyrell cares about his son very much.”

“He’s a model of fatherhood,” Lydia rejoined. 

“That he is.” The knight shifted his helmet from one side to the other. “I’m sure that Sir Loras will do well today.”

“Oh, I trust he will. As I’m sure you will.” 

“I’m not as skilled a jouster as many of the people here. I don’t imagine I’ll be too successful.”

“You’re modest, Ser Christopher.”

“I’d say realistic. These days, I’m much more of a soldier than a knight. I have no doubt that I’ll be unhorsed in the end, but I’m going to give as good a performance as I can.”

Lydia gave him her brightest smile. No slouchy, inept knight was offered a position on the Kingsguard. “I hate to bother you when I’m sure you must be readying yourself for the tourney, but would you mind …”

“You would like to know about Allison.”

“I would, good knight. It’s been far too long since I’ve talked to her. I’ve written her letters, but you know as well as I do how far away she is.”

“I have received several letters from her myself, and she told me she was going to write to you. That letter probably awaits you back in Highgarden.”

Lydia would never admit how much pleasure that news gave her. She could surround herself with a flock of followers, but they were only hers as long as no one of greater status appeared. Allison liked her for her, and that was a rare treasure. 

“I am so glad. I look forward to the day she returns from the North.”

The knight was betrayed by the flicker of his eyelids, of the slight downturn at the corner of his mouth, of the way his hand shifted on the helmet. Lydia tilted her head in consternation.

“When is she returning from the North?”

“My daughter has been betrothed to a knight who lives in Beacon Hills. It is most likely she will remain in Beacon Hills and rule there as its Lady.” Sir Christopher’s voice was back to its flint-like consistency — hard and level.

“That …” Lydia felt at a loss. “That’s some news, Sir Christopher. I must admit I’m taken aback by it. The North is so far away and so …”

“I understand.”

“Allison is not like any other girls, of course. She must love it there, being able to ride and hunt in someplace new and exciting. But surely once she is married to this knight … is he a famous knight?”

“Ser Jackson Whittemore is supposedly the best jouster in the North and a prodigy with the blade.” 

“Oh. I would hope that once they married he would want to visit her family at Silverlock? I would love to meet him and to see Allison again.”

Ser Christopher’s vague look of disappointment must have matched her own. “The Argent castle is a long way from Beacon Hills.”

“Still, the trip would be worth it for them. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Ser Christopher, but the North is so … far north.” She leaned forward. “I saw the Hand from afar. Are all Northerners like him, so dour and gloomy? While his elder daughter is very pretty, her taste seems a bit …”

“Rustic?” 

“Rustic in a good word. And, more often than not, his younger daughter looks like she should be sweeping out the stables. Lord Stark might be a great warrior, but he doesn’t seem to fit in here.”

“Lord Eddard helped overthrow the Targaryens and suppress the Greyjoy Rebellion. He’s been the King’s best friend for decades, and he’s no fool. Even if he doesn’t dress like a Southern lord.” Ser Christopher chided.

“I meant no offense …”

“I know, Lady Lydia. You are worried you’ll not see my daughter again for a long time. I’m worried about that as well. But in the end, we must all do our duty. Maybe you could find it in yourself to travel to Beacon Hills and see her? I know she would appreciate it.”

Lydia thought she must might. It was a slightly terrifying thought. 

“If I can gain my mother’s permission, I just might.”

**Isaac**

“There you go, men, best ale we have.” The taverner put the drinks on the table with a flourish. Isaac looked at the mugs and then at Scott and Stiles. Isaac had never been to the tavern before; he assumed that Scott and Stiles must have because they didn’t hesitate to take the mugs.

“Only ale they have is more like it,” Stiles winked at him. The squire lifted the mug in salute. “He thinks the whole village doesn’t know that he only sells the one.”

Scott didn’t say anything but stared at the foam on his drink for way too long before taking a drink. The lord’s kennel master had been quiet all evening. 

Isaac took the mug gingerly. He hadn’t told either of the other two, but he felt somewhat honored to be drinking in their company. He’d never drank at all. His father was a regular customer to the tavern, but he had made it clear that Isaac was never to come to this place. Camden had started coming here before he had upped and joined the personal guard of Lord Glover. Isaac was defying that edict, and it was both exciting and a little terrifying, even though he had left his father asleep when he came here.

“Drink up!” Stiles lifted his mug once again, forgetting that he had just done so. “We’re alive, we have money, and we’re young. What more could we ask for?”

Isaac took a sip of the ale and coughed. It burned a little going down his throat. What more could they ask for, indeed?

“There’s a lad.” Stiles turned concerned eyes on his friend. “Scott, drink! Don’t be so gloomy!”

Grudgingly, Scott took a sip.

Isaac hadn’t been quite sure why Stiles had come to the house and invited him to come to the tavern. Well, there was the obvious reason -- Stiles wanted to cheer Scott up. What Isaac didn’t understand was why he had been asked to come here. Isaac had never hung around Scott or Stiles when they were children; he was never able to go too far from his house and the graveyard it sat next to. Few children came to him, for who would want to go play with the weird boy among the dead? He had only had Camden.

He hoped he wasn’t weird. Isaac didn’t think he was, not really. He was simply a little lonely.

Stiles the Squire had come earlier that day when he had been out repairing one of the barrows. The son of the sworn sword to the Argents had badgered him until he had said yes to coming to the tavern. Now he was drinking ale; it felt a little surreal.

“Do you like it?” Stiles asked him with a sort of intense interest. 

“It’s … it’s good.” Isaac wasn’t sure that he liked the taste of it, but he didn’t want to disappoint Stiles. It burned in his belly. 

Scott must have heard the lack of conviction in his voice, for he looked up at Isaac’s statement. “I didn’t like it when I first drank it.”

“That’s because you were afraid!” Stiles clapped the kennel master on the back and took another drink.

“You stole a flagon of good ale from your father. I was afraid that we were both going to get whipped when we got caught!”

“But we didn’t get caught!” Stiles beamed at him, wiping the foam off his lips.

“No, we didn’t.” Scott allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up. “We did drink the whole thing and then throw up.”

“I’m going to throw up?” Isaac asked. He didn’t want to throw up.

“No! No! We were like children then!” Stiles reassured him. “You’ll be _fine._ ”

Scott chuckled. “You’re like a child now.”

Stiles went into a very serious and lengthy explanation of why children needed to misbehave from time to time, and that drinking ale when you’re young after managing to _liberate_ a flagon from your father — who didn’t really need it anyway — was a rite of passage most boys should take. Stiles continued on and on and the words tumbled out of him. If he would have been forced to be honest, Isaac got lost in the story once or twice. Of course, it didn’t matter if he got lost or not, because it wasn’t really the meaning of the words that mattered. 

It was more what the words accomplished, because as Stiles talked and digressed and mocked and prodded, the more Scott seemed to leave behind the sour, silent mood he had at the beginning of the evening. Both the words and their effect made Isaac smile, something which Stiles did not miss.

Without even knowing it, they had finished one round of mugs and were on their second. Isaac felt a little light-headed, but it was a good warm feeling. He hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

“See. Isaac is having fun; Scott, you should follow his example. And now, for me to have more fun, I must go outside.”

Isaac couldn’t quite follow what Stiles was getting at. He shot the squire a look, but the man was on his way outside. Oh. He was going to take a piss. That left Isaac was alone with Scott.

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, but the light-head feeling made him both brave and curious. “May I ask you a question?”

Scott looked up from his ale and nodded encouragement.

“Stiles said … Stiles said it was important for me to come tonight because you needed me to come, but I’ve never actually spent much time around you. I don’t know why I need to come, and it’s … well, you … is something wrong?”

“Oh. Well.” Scott’s face fell perceptibly. “Stiles has simply gotten tired of me moping all the time. It’s nothing, really.” 

“Stiles doesn’t seem to think it’s nothing.” Isaac added the next part, because he wanted to make sure Scott understood from where he was coming. “And Stiles is really smart.”

Scott looked up at him and gave him a real smile, but it never reached his eyes. “You sure you want to hear it? It’s … it’s pretty stupid.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

Scott looked up through the ceiling of the tavern as if he could actually see the night sky above. “I should be content, but I’m not. I’m a man now. Did you know that most of the people in the village didn’t think I’d live this long because of my lungs? But I did. Not only that. I have a roof over my head. I have three good meals a day. I enjoy working with the horses and the dogs. When Winter comes, I’m not going to freeze to death like those poor farmers who had a few bad crops. Even my mother has a home and is safe. I should give thanks to the Seven and be content.”

“But …” 

“I’m not content. I didn’t even notice what was happening, but she … something made all of what I have seem hollow. For the first time, I wanted something that I could never have. That I should never have.”

Isaac felt an irrational stab of anger. He shouldn’t be angry; he had asked the question. But Isaac had a miserable life, and he had become resigned to it a long time ago. He had learned that it was easier not to want, but even as the feelings curdled in his chest, he couldn’t bring himself to say that to the other man.

“Maybe in another world, we could have …” Scott shook his head violently. “But not here. And now, I’m wondering if I’ll ever be content. If I’ll spend the rest of my life wanting in vain.”

They had been so engrossed in the conversation that they hadn’t heard Stiles approach the table again with more ale. “Scott, you have to stop.” His voice was angry.

“I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Isaac looked between them. He had assumed it was a woman, but he had no idea who it could be.

“You can and you will.” Stiles set the mugs on the table with a thump. “You’ll get yourself killed, and you’ll get me killed trying to keep you from getting killed, and then Isaac will have to dig our graves and I don’t think Isaac wants to do that.”

“No,” Isaac agreed. “No, I don’t.”

Scott looked at Stiles unhappily. “Look, I didn’t want this to happen. None of it.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Stiles brought his head so close Scott’s head so he could whisper to him that their foreheads were touching, but Isaac managed to make out the squire’s words. “She’s a noblewoman, Scott. She’ll rule this village and all the lands around it. She’s betrothed to Ser Jackson, who already half wants to put a sword through you.” 

“I know that, Stiles.”

“You also know that she’s going to be living in the new castle they’re going to build and if you’re lucky, you’ll keep you in charge of the kennels.”

“Lucky,” Scott murmured. 

“Yes, lucky. So you have to get over it, because you’ll probably see her every day for the rest of your life, and you are going to have to pretend for the rest of your life that you don’t care. So it’s best that _you don’t actually care._ ”

“You should get married.” Isaac blurted it out. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to help and it seemed like it would help.

Scott and Stiles whirled to look at him. 

“You should get married.” It suddenly sounded stupid to him, but he couldn’t look at Scott. “That would take your mind off it. Find someone else and marry them.”

“You say that as if it’s easy. I couldn’t believe that she looked at me,” Scott complained. “Who in this town would marry me?”

“That’s a great idea, Isaac!” Stiles was chipper once more. “We should get Scott married. He’s a man now. It’s time for him to have a wife and some children.”

“Erica.” Isaac suggested.

“You want me to marry Erica.” 

“You don’t like her?”

“I never thought about her that way.” 

Isaac felt like back-tracking and pretending he was joking, but he didn’t. “She probably hasn’t thought about you that way, but Erica needs to get married.”

Stiles looked over his shoulder to the direction where Erica would usually be this time of night. “She does.”

“Would …” Scott looked dumbfounded that they were even talking about this.

“She’s going to die.” Isaac pushed forward. He couldn’t help but think that he was messing things up, even as he tried to help Scott. Tonight was supposed to be fun for all of them, and now he was pushing things that were definitely not fun. “Winter’s going to come, and she’s not going to make it through a Winter, not living the way she does now.”

“Her family wouldn’t let her stay out in the cold, would they?” 

“No, they wouldn’t, but she might make them. She’d insist that she was fine and that she could take care of herself, and then a storm would come.” Isaac was suddenly insistent. “That’s what my father said would happen to her.”

“Your father …” Stiles began.

“He was wondering how to get someone to pay for her funeral,” Isaac spat. Suddenly he was angry at his father, at Erica, and at Scott. “I hate him. I hate this place.” He took his barely touched mug and drained it. 

“Whoa, Isaac.”

“I’m really sorry that you don’t get to be with that woman,” he sneered at Scott. “I’m sorry that you had a great life ruined because you can’t be with someone that’s above your station. I’d love to have that problem.”

Scott didn’t answer. He just looked down at his drink. 

Isaac suddenly stood up. He had to get out of this place right now, so he did. He stormed out and down the road and past a lone sailor heading to the tavern. He wondered if he would ever get to go back there.

He hadn’t lied when he said he hated Beacon Hills. He felt trapped. He felt like a rabbit struggling against a snare. If he kept pulling on it, he’d end up cutting his throat. Maybe that would be a good thing.

“Isaac!” The voice belonged to Scott, chasing after him. The other man was breathing a little heavily.

Isaac could probably outrun him, but he didn’t. Scott came to a stop next to him, pausing to catch his breath, hands on his knees. 

“I’m sorry.” They said it in unison. It was confusing and then they burst out into laughter.

“I’m sorry for ruining your night.” 

“It’s not my night. Stiles was just trying to cheer me up when I was being a fool.” 

Isaac turned away. There were glowing lights from the ships in the harbor reflected in the water. It was peaceful. “We’re all trapped, aren’t we?”

“Huh?”

“I’m going to live with my father until he dies, and then I’m going to be the gravedigger after he dies. I’ll put him in the ground and every day will be like the day before. Maybe I should be the one to marry Erica. At least she’ll have someplace warm to sleep, even if it’s with the dead.”

Scott pulled on his sleeve. “You shouldn’t marry someone because you feel sorry for them. And, even if you did, maybe you should ask Erica what she wants.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t really feel sorry for Erica. I feel sorry for me. Do you feel trapped, Scott?”

“I do now.” 

“Does she like you back? This woman you can’t have?”

“I think she does. We never said anything; we never talked about it, but I think she liked me. But it doesn’t mean anything; she’d never hurt her family like that.” 

“Then she’s trapped as much as you and I are. As much as Stiles is. Everyone says he’s a terrible squire, but he doesn’t really have a choice, does he?”

Scott shook his head. “You can think about it like that. In the end, we don’t do certain things because we’re good people. Allison could betray her vows, and I could overreach my place. You could hit your father over the head with a shovel and bury him where no one would know. Stiles could ride for Oldtown and become a maester; he’s smart enough to do it.”

“But … I couldn’t …” 

“You won’t hurt your father because you aren’t a murderer, as Stiles wouldn’t hurt his dad by leaving him alone. As Erica would rather people treat her like she’s a madwoman rather than burden her family. I was sad because I’m being selfish, and you were right to be angry with me.”

“You’re not selfish. You didn’t ask to fall in love.” Isaac wondered if he was drunk. He had been yelling at Scott just a few minutes before and now he wanted to make him feel better. He wanted to take him by the shoulders until he smiled again.

Scott shrugged. “I just need to find a way to be happy. We all do.”

Isaac sighed. “Do you think if we were in another world, things wouldn’t be so hard?” 

Minutes passed as the full moon sailed through the starry sky. 

“No, Isaac. I think it’d be just as hard.”

 

**Maester Alan**

The maester rapped sharply on the door to the Argent House. Alan assumed that the Argents were still taking their midday meal, which was convenient because that meant they were they would all be in one place. He had a sealed scroll in one hand and a packet in the other. He’d only read the one from Lord Glover, but something told him that both together meant a serious turn of events.

He had brought Ser David, Ser Noah, and Ser Jackson with him from the keep. They were directly affected by these events, he suspected. 

A girl whom he recognized as Sydney opened the door and gave the singularly worst curtsey Alan had ever seen. He hadn’t heard that Lady Victoria had started to hire local girls for her servants. Sydney had always been a girl more eager to please than competent; she probably would do well as a lady’s waiting woman if she could tamper her nervous excitement.

Sydney led them into the dining room where Lady Victoria, Lady Allison and Lady Katherine were indeed working on their midday meal. To Alan’s displeasure, the huntress looked up at him, smirking.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, my lady, but I have news.”

“We have pretty much finished, Maester Alan. I assume this is something important since you brought these worthy knights. Please, all of you, sit with us.” It was phrased as a request but on Lady Victoria’s tongue it sounded a hair’s breadth short of an order. 

“This letter is from Lord Glover delivered by courier.” Alan held up the packet. “He has no objection to your hope that the Lady Allison may wed Ser Jackson, but he did have a requirement before he gave his approval.”

“Which is?” Lady Victoria demeanor changed subtly. She hadn’t expected something like that.

“He’d like you to secure the Lord of Winterfell’s approval for it as well. He understands that it’s outside of customary etiquette to take that extra step, but he feels given the history of your family, it is merited.”

Lady Allison shrugged as if the conversation was uninteresting to her. Alan had noticed that in the last few days she seemed far less enthusiastic about marrying Ser Jackson than she had earlier. He couldn’t be sure, but Alan believed she was angry with the knight but hiding it. Lady Victoria did not hide her frown, most likely calculating what this meant, but Lady Katherine simply laughed.

“I think that’s probably my fault, sister. I have a bad reputation among these northern yokels.”

The maester kept his face as bland as possible. Ser David looked nervous, Ser Noah looked a little angry, and Ser Jackson wasn’t paying attention, his eyes fixed on Allison. 

Lady Victoria did not respond to that comment immediately. “And the other message?”

“It’s a sealed scroll delivered by raven from your father-in-law.” While the knights had sat down at their lady’s table, Alan had remained standing in order to deliver the scroll to Victoria personally.

“Thank you. Please sit. Help yourselves to the food.” She turned to Sydney. “Don’t stand there. Bring more wine for them.” 

As the new serving girl disappeared into the kitchen, Ser David, ever one to fill silences, turned to Allison. “I had not heard that young Mistress Sydney had started waiting on your family.”

“Mother felt it best to have some of the local girls work for us, so they can help us learn about the village. They don’t really know how to serve the way we’re used to, but mother is teaching them.” Allison looked at Victoria, but she was reading the message.

Lady Katherine chuckled. “The lass will see more gold and more excitement cleaning our dishes for a month, Alli, than she would have in her entire life otherwise.”

Ser Jackson cleared his throat. “She should already know how to serve. Her mother used to run the kitchen at our keep. We’ve only kept the best …” 

The knight trailed off as Lady Allison shot him a glare that might have killed a small animal at close range. Alan had never seen more of Lady Victoria in her daughter then at that moment. He wondered what had passed between the betrothed couple to cause such strong feelings.

“This is going to be very difficult.” Lady Victoria took the message and folded it carefully until it was a small square. “I now have an idea that his requirement was not Lord Glover’s idea. Trouble has arisen between the Lannisters and the Starks. Lady Catelyn seized Lord Tyrion on the Kingsroad, and Ser Jaime, in return, attacked the Hand in the streets of King’s Landing.”

Ser David gaped at the news; his son was less appalled and more interested. Ser Noah glanced at the maester who met his eyes. This was serious news.

“Well, that’s a fight I would have wanted to see.” Lady Katherine chuckled and snatched another glass of wine from the hapless Sydney. “I’ve heard stories about Eddard Stark, but he’s never crossed swords with the Kingslayer.”

Ser Jackson was suddenly intrigued. “You’ve seen Ser Jaime fight?” 

“Enough.” Lady Victoria brought the small talk to an end. “Obviously, House Argent’s dual allegiance to House Lannister and House Stark is going to complicate matters during this crisis. However, no one here has anything to do with what has transpired. I am correct about that?”

She asked the whole table, but her eyes were focused on Lady Katherine.

“I had nothing to do with that! Why would you think such a thing?” The woman asked mockingly.

 _Because you traveled far into the lands of a man who despises you for little apparent reason,_ Alan answered silently. 

Victoria and Katherine locked eyes and the tension in the room was palpable. If they had been men, people might have been worried that a sword fight was about to occur. Allison stared at her plate as if it were the only safe spot to look. The knights were just as cowed.

“If I may suggest a course of action?” Alan interrupted the standoff; tactical suggestions were part of being a maester. “It would demonstrate not only your innocence but your good intentions if you asked for permission from the Lord of Winterfell in person.”

Lady Katherine snorted. “We’re not going to travel all the way to King’s Landing.”

Alan favored the woman with the briefest glance. “While Lord Eddard is Hand to the King, he is not Lord of Winterfell. That falls to his son Robb, who by all accounts is a fine and fair young man.”

Lady Victoria considered it. “Though I’ve heard he’s not particularly talented in politics.”

Ser Noah coughed. “Most northern yokels aren’t.” Katherine gave the knight a sneering smile.

Alan continued as if that lesser exchange had not occurred. “If you, Lady Allison, Ser David and Ser Jackson went and presented your petition together, I am sure Robb Stark would see it for exactly what it was: a marriage proposal in good faith.” The maester could barely keep the excitement out of his voice. If Victoria took his advice and if Peter had already received the raven and arrived here as quickly as he could, Alan could manage to insure that only Katherine Argent paid for her crimes and no innocents would be drawn into the battle. That would satisfy him a great deal.

Lady Victoria never worried whether people were waiting on her to make a decision. When it concerned her family, she was ferociously deliberate. “Only Ser David, Ser Noah, and I shall make the trip. I will leave Allison, Katherine and Ser Jackson here.”

Allison frowns. “I don’t see why …”

“You don’t need to see why, you need to do what I say.” Alan watched, instead of Victoria’s eyes, the hand that held the message. She worried the paper like a Silent Sister clutched their prayer beads. 

Allison nodded, chastised. “Yes, mother.”

“While we’re gone, Katherine, you’ll set up patrols. Ser Jackson will help you.” Victoria ordered.

Katherine leaned forward. “Something’s happening, isn’t it?”

Victoria hesitated. “Nothing’s happening. But something very well _could_ happen.”


	8. A Golden Crown

**Stiles**

In the garret of his house, Stiles with Scott’s help had carted up an old rickety table not too many months ago. Master Thomas had tossed the table into his wood pile to cut up during cold nights. It would be so great a waste that Stiles had liberated it one night. While he was sure that Master Thomas would be able to find more wood to burn in his fireplace, he needed this table. While one leg was very much shorter than the others and it would rock back and forth when anyone put their weight on it, it would serve his needs.

Stiles had slept in the garret room since they had taken this house. Recently, when his father had suggested that he stop sleeping there and make up a bed on the first floor, Stiles had politely demurred. His father had attempted to cover what was clearly his desire for Stiles take a more adult approach to life — being ready to respond to trouble in the town within a moment’s notice — with a more benign worry that Stiles would freeze to death during the upcoming Winter. Stiles had felt bad that he didn’t want to do what his father thought was best, but he had his own plans for the garret, and the table had been important to those plans.

Those plans were coming to fruition. After they had wrangled the table up the narrow stairs, Stiles and Scott had also gathered, during a lazy afternoon, a variety of different colored and shaped stones as well as a few straight sticks that had been whittled smooth. He had also fetched discarded yarn from the seamstress. Arrayed on the table, the sticks were used to represent different allegiances in different locations. Each of the stones represented a different person. Yarn was tied between stones and between sticks to indicate relationships. 

When it was done, the table performed exactly how Stiles had assumed it would perform. It helped him think. And this night, it was helping him think about Lady Katherine. Stiles was still convinced she was up to something. 

The light that worked its way in through the tiny windows was enough for him to meditate upon the table. He had already decided that he had to divide the Argents into two groups, adding new sticks to separate them. The first group included Lady Victoria and Lady Allison along with their new servants and the four men-at-arms they had brought with them. Stiles placed Ser David, Ser Jackson, and the men-at-arms that answered to the Whittemores in the adjacent sector. Ser David would no doubt do as Lady Victoria commanded, but Stiles had perceived that Lady Victoria did not yet have much faith in the landed knight.

This division of Argents were clearly here to establish a long-term presence. Lady Victoria was putting down roots with the marriage between Ser Jackson and Lady Allison (a red string between them), planning the erection of a new castle, and hiring locals into her household. And that was yet another indicator of a clear divide between the Argents. If the two separate homes were not indication enough, there was the truth that Stiles had noticed: the thugs who worked for Lady Katherine very seldom spent time with the other Argent men-at-arms, the Whittemore men-at-arms, or anyone from the village really. Beacon Hills was not that large a village, so the only reason that this would happen is if Lady Katherine or Lady Victoria or both wanted it to happen.

Lady Katherine’s men were, quite frankly, scum. They were sell-swords, and they were more often to be found in one of the two taverns in town than protecting Lady Katherine. They had gotten into several fights with sailors and townsfolk alike, and Stiles had wheedled his father one evening into talking about them. 

“They’re killers, Stiles.” Ser Noah had groused. “Stay clear from them. I have no idea why a house such as the Argents would employ such men.”

That was exactly what Stiles intended to discover.

After one last glance at the board, he slipped downstairs and headed towards the front door. His father was bent over the pot hanging in the fireplace. A slight frown marred Ser Noah’s face as he poked at the pot with a spoon.

“See you later, father.” Stiles almost made it. 

“Wait.” Stiles winced as his father used his command voice. “Where are you going?”

Stiles straightened up. Even though he was a man now, he was still a squire, and his father could make him remain here and help finish making dinner. That would be a damned nuisance. “I was going to eat with friends of mine.” When lying, it was best not to use names, so his father couldn’t verify.

Ser Noah sighed. “I might say that I’d like you to eat dinner with me, but I’m not sure I can properly call this dinner. I don’t understand; I followed the directions Melissa left for me.”

Stiles did not laugh at the older knight; he tried to be respectful towards his father in all but the most extreme situations. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. It was better to say he tried not to be too disrespectful. Instead, he walked over and looked at the stew which seem rather … clumpy. “How long ago did you put it on the fire?”

“I’m … I’m not sure.”

“I think you have left it on too long.” Wrapping a cloth around his hand, he took the pot off and placed it on the table. His father was a much greater knight than other people in the village might think, but he wasn’t a cook. Stiles tasted the stew which confirmed his belief. “Yes. Yes, you did. I’d go to the tavern. This is not going to taste any good.”

“I shouldn’t waste food.”

“We’ll have plenty of it for Winter, father. One night will not break anyone.” It was true, and the village owed that to Ser Noah Stilinski. When some people balked at the amount of food his father had insisted be put away, the knight had stood firm. Unlike many parts of the North, trade never stopped in Beacon Hills, even in Winter, and people argued that the tax was too great. Ser Noah was a cautious man, and a result, there were four storehouses, locked and barred, by the docks and two caves up on Cliffside filled with foodstuffs. Maester Alan always said this was going to be the longest Summer in living memory, but long Summers were always followed by long Winters. 

“Still doesn’t mean I should waste it.” Ser Noah looked glum but then he tasted the stew for himself. “The tavern sounds about right.” 

“There you go!” Stiles saluted and rushed out the door. He wasn’t planning to have dinner at all; not yet at least. He was going to stalk the Cliffside Road until he was out of sight of the Argent homes and then sprint farther up to the house directly above Lady Katherine’s. This home was presently empty; the sea-captain’s widow who had lived here for many years now resided with the Laheys on the other side of the inlet. He forced the door in; it would take a long time for abandoned property to come to the Argent’s attention, and if the widow had children, she never mentioned them. In the faded twilight, the house echoed emptily. It had only a few furnishings and nothing of any note.

What the house did have was a perfect view of both of the Argent homes. Dragging a chair to a window, Stiles prepared to keep watch. It was going to be a challenge for him; he seldom was able to sit still on good days. He hoped his willpower would strong enough for that night. He wondered if he should have brought some ale to keep his hands busy.

It was after the sun had well and truly set and Stiles was very close to going out of his mind with boredom, when the door to Lady Katherine’s house opened and the woman herself stepped out. Stiles could tell because he caught the glint of her blond hair in the burning candles from within the house. She closed the door and moved towards the road; Stiles could barely make her out by moonlight. She walked alone and with no light. 

Stiles rushed to the door of the house but came to a stop when his hand touched the handle. If he was going to follow Lady Katherine he was going to have to do it slowly and deliberately. This wasn’t a childish lark. This was serious. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and exited as stealthily as he could.

He kept what he was sure was Lady Katherine at the very farthest extent of his vision as she headed down towards the inlet. He wished Scott was here. Any other time, he would have brought Scott with him, but too many things made that a bad idea. First, if they got caught, Stiles might be able to lie his way out of trouble, but Scott was terrible with lies. Second, if they did get caught and they couldn’t lie their way out of it, there was the potential for Lady Katherine discovered the sigil of the Warg King which that crazy wildling had burned into Scott’s side. Scott might try to forget about it as much as possible, but Stiles wasn’t going to underestimate its significance. Finally, Scott still mourned whatever the hell he was doing with the Lady Allison, though his friend swore up and down that he wasn’t in love with her, he still acted like it. That made discretion and focus difficult, and that’s what this mission required.

Lady Katherine disappeared into the dingy tavern nestled between an abandoned warehouse and one of the city’s warehouses. The tavern used to be small but bustling until one Spring a fever had struck and almost everyone who frequented or worked there had died. So now only those people without enough coin to go to the main tavern of the city went there — and those who didn’t want to be seen by other people. Ser Noah was sure that most of the smuggled goods in the port came through its doors, but he had never been able to catch any of the culprits responsible.

Stiles had always thought his father was just a little bit too loud when it came to the tavern. He’d ride up with some men-at-arms on his horse which would have given any smuggler time to hide their contraband. Stiles planned a different approach. Curious as to what went on there, he had discovered that you could crawl out on a little ledge over the water. A knot that could be removed to let you peek into the tavern. It was at the height of most people’s calves, but you could still listen pretty well.

Lady Katherine was talking in a loud boisterous manner as Stiles clung to the ledge. 

“What the hell is this swill?” 

A gruff man’s voice answer her, obviously irked. “I’m sure it’s nothing like what milady usually drinks.”

“I’m sure,” Katherine drawled, “it’s nothing like what dogs drink.”

The tavern went quiet. Stiles wasn’t sure how many people were in there. 

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be sour. It’s not complete piss.”

“High-born ladies shouldn’t come here alone.” The man was angry.

Suddenly there was a sound of boots and chairs sliding across the floor and crockery and mugs clattering to the floor. There was a man’s cry.

“Anyone else want to explain to me,” said Lady Katherine, her voice low and dangerous, “what I should or shouldn’t do?”

It seemed that no one in the tavern did. 

“Good. Now let me buy you rounds. If there is something _else_ us high-born ladies can do it's spend gold. And you gentlemen like gold, don’t you?”

The scum in there did like both gold and ale, and whatever Lady Katherine had done to the rough man limited their plans to just that. 

Stiles listened for maybe an hour before he had to climb back off the ledge and go home. He was cold and tired, and if he slipped, they’d hear the splash for sure. Lady Katherine hadn’t monologued her evil plans to anyone, which was kind of disappointing. All she had done is spent the evening buying shitty drinks for wretched men. If they weren’t terrified of her, each and every one of those men would have not thought twice about attacking her or worse. They would do anything for a moment’s pleasure and even worse things for gold.

Stiles stopped in the middle of the street.

The Argents had money, loyal men, and authority. They could get nearly anything done they wanted to get done in Beacon Hills. Hell, Lady Victoria could order his father to do almost anything, and he would be compelled to do it. Then why did a lady need to woo human slime with gold?

One possible answer was that she needed something done of which Lady Victoria would disapprove. Or she needed something done that House Argent wanted to make sure could not be tied to them. 

Stiles chewed on his thumb. This was all speculation; he had no proof. Why would Lady Katherine ride north when she knew that the Warden of the North despised her? One reason could have been that she was already tainted in the North’s eyes. This could mean that House Argent was planning something terrible, and they needed to find a way to get it done without endangering their control over Beacon Hills.

More than ever, Stiles needed to know what it was before it happened.

**Jackson**

Ser Jackson and Lady Allison stood side by side in the courtyard as Lady Victoria and her entourage departed for Winterfell. To an outside observer, all was as it should have been. Ser Jackson remained stoic before his liege and his father. Lady Allison waved to her mother as she left.

The moment the horses were out of sight, Allison turned on her heel and started to walk away. Jackson reached out and took her arm to stop her. He was careful not to do it too roughly, though he was sure she would not appreciate what he had done no matter how gently he tried to do it.

Allison didn’t try to break the grip but turned to look at him with hooded eyes and the slightest sneer on her face. 

“I have done something to offend you, my lady.” This was disingenuous on his part. Jackson knew exactly what he had done.

“Do you think so? I’ll not deny it.” Allison’s voice was clear as ice and twice as cold. “Release me.”

The knight released his grip on her arm. “I would ask that you give me a chance to explain my actions.” He had tried for as long as he had dared to pretend that her anger meant nothing to him, but, in the end, he had been forced to capitulate. It was frustrating that he couldn’t bear to have her angry with him.

“Explain them. I would love to hear your reasons.” 

Ser Jackson glanced at the servants in the courtyard. The idiotic squire was not among them, and the kennel master had disappeared the moment he had fulfilled his purpose for the travelers. Yet there were still his father’s men-at-arms and the maester within earshot. 

“If you would indulge me this far, maybe I could impose on you to walk with me into the woods.” It was a beautiful day; no one would be concerned about that.

Allison frowned; she had been following his eyes around the yard. “Do you fear shame, Ser Jackson?” 

“Please, my lady.”

Without allowing him to take her arm, Allison left the gates of the keep and headed into the woods. Jackson followed, matching her pace, until he thought they were far enough away not to be overheard. The sun dappled the ground around them as it shown through the leafy canopy.

“You sullied my honor.” Allison didn’t even let him get the first words.

“I sullied _your_ honor!” Jackson started with outrage, but that was not what he wanted. He mastered himself. “You are mistaken. I protected your honor.”

“My honor needed no protection from anyone but your misjudgment. You are the one who acts as if I were some wanton strumpet.” Her voice is high and sharp. 

“People were beginning to talk —”

“Which people?” She snapped, disbelieving. 

Jackson grimaced. He was trying to smooth over the rift between him and his betrothed bride. He would not succeed by casting the blame on her beloved aunt. “It matters not. A fool could see that you were overly familiar with the kennel boy.”

“He’s the kennel master,” she replied archly. “And what, pray tell, does ‘familiar’ mean? We discussed the land I am to rule, and the horses I am to ride, and the hunts I am to have. He told me about his family and his life, and I told him about the South. But now I know that I should seek out a septa for penance, for I have truly committed a sin against the Maiden.”

Jackson clenched his jaw. “Why would you mock me so?”

“Because you have done things worthy of mockery. Scott will be my servant, and he was my friend. Yet thanks to you he runs from me. But I am not of common blood who needs fear your blade, and I will not be some timid maiden, flinching from a baseless accusation.” Allison lifted her chin. “You would do well not to expect such behavior from an Argent.”

Ser Jackson turned away from her. He suddenly had no words to mollify her anger.

Now it was Lady Allison’s turn to take him by the arm and turn him around so he faced her. “Did you not take a vow to protect the innocent? Did you not take a vow to defend the weak? Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you did not break them?” 

“Did that villain tell you?”

“Scott has not said one word to me since the scullery maid told me you two rode off into the woods together. Now, he flees my presence like I am a Dothraki screamer.” Allison rolled her eyes to the heavens. “It does not take much to understand what you did. You threatened him. Why would you do such a thing?”

Ser Jackson felt, for a moment, the urge to get down on his knees and beg forgiveness, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “I saw the way he watched you. Tell me he does not worship you!”

“Of course he does, you sodden twit!” Allison laughed derisively. “And I find him warm and kind and not at all unhandsome. Yet, we are not animals; we are not wildlings. We don’t give into our base urges just because we have them. Unlike some men that I know, who would threaten a man who would not, could not defend himself from an anointed knight because of unfounded jealousy!”

The lady stood before him, her hands clenched to her sides, her cheeks flushed, her eyes aflame with anger and annoyance. Aside from the fact that this wrath was directed at him, he had never found her more beautiful than in that moment.

“I was resigned to this betrothal, knight, because it would be best for my family, but you should know I always had misgivings about you. Not that you were false, but that you would be dissatisfied with me as your wife. Now, I know that those misgivings were true.”

Jackson gaped at her. “You have misgivings that I have jealousy of another man holds your favor and desires it? I raged at the idea of another man having those feelings for you. There is no shame in that.”

“You have wronged us, for we have done nothing to merit rage. You should apologize.”

Jackson offered a small smile. “I can only claim that in my defense that I have known you but for a little time. I can only promise that I will never do such a thing again. Please forgive me.”

Allison remained sharp. “Not to me, Ser Jackson. Apologize to Scott.”

“He … he’s my servant!”

“Never-the-less, if you wish to regain my esteem, which would seem to be this walk’s goal, which is what you must do. Show me how good a man you are, Ser Jackson. It’s not shown by skill at arms, but by what a man does when they find themselves to be wrong.”

“You’d have me humble myself to a commoner.” Jackson tried to keep his voice level.

“Yes, if you desire me to think of you as I once did, yes.”

“And how did you think of me?”

“As someone whom it would not be too horrible to spend the rest of my life with as his wife. But now … how I could be your wife? If we are wed, and I talk to the butcher for a minute too long, will you have him flogged? Will you chain me to my bed to make sure I do not stray?”

The knight gripped his sword. “It seemed …”

“You are my betrothed. I swear by the Father that I have done, would never do, anything wrong with any man, let alone a good one such as Scott. That I must swear it to you, sickens me.”

“Then don’t,” Jackson looked her in the eyes to make it true. “I will … apologize, if it would make you look kindly on me once again. I had no proof. I had not seen it myself, before the words of others led me there and then that was all I could see.”

Allison looked mollified. “I will take your word that you will, for I know how much the word of a knight matters to you. And in the future, should you feel the need to question my behavior, come to _me_.”

“I will.” 

They walked in silence until they got back to the keep.

**Boyd**

Boyd rested his hands on his hips as he stared at the towering mountains in the dying sunlight. These peaks were part of the Frostfangs and were always covered with snow. The summer sun turned them red, like blood on a new harpoon. He could barely remember the last time he saw snow, which had to have been an early Spring fall in the hills near his home in the Stormlands.

Finally, he understood why Malia Pyke had wanted to bring a knar. The Ironborn longboats would not do well during the long journey from the Iron Islands to the mouth of the Milkwater, but a real sailing ship would not be able to go very far up that same river. Malia had instructed them to bring it as far upriver as they could, and then she had then insisted that they beach it and cover it with old sails she had brought with them for just that purpose. 

Boyd hadn’t said anything at first, even though her precautions bothered him. They had arrived at dawn the day before, and while the other sailors were already bored with waiting in the same place, he had been thinking. It was easy to do with the other men grumbling. For Ironborn, they were shiftless and lazy with bad attitudes. If it weren’t for the ridiculous amount of silver that Malia had promised them, they would have probably tried to throw the woman overboard halfway through the journey.

It was a good thing they hadn’t tried; Boyd didn’t think they would get very far. Malia never showed her teeth, but anyone who had been at sea long enough could recognize someone dangerous. The losers that had sailed with him dismissed her because she was a woman. Boyd wasn’t going to make that mistake.

“How long?” Boyd had walked up behind her as she stared upriver.

“Hmmmm?” Malia often avoided answering questions by pretending she didn’t understand.

“We’re waiting for people. How long before they arrive here?”

“I’m not a fortune teller. It could be today; it could be tomorrow; it could be days from now.”

“Won’t that be dangerous for us?”

Malia shot him a glance. “We’re sitting on a river bank. What could be dangerous?”

“We’re sitting on this side of the river bank, when on that side …” Boyd pointed to the opposite one. “When that side would have been a better place to moor the boat and far more comfortable for all of us. Not only that, we’re in the middle of nowhere, but you brought dingy, rotten old sails to hide the boat from … whom?”

Malia shrugged.

“And what’s that?” Boyd pointed north to a thick dark line that hovered in midair above the river’s gorge, from one mountain to the other. You know what that is?”

Malia sighed as if cornered. “The Bridge of Skulls.” 

“You knew I was a navigator. That means that big mass on the horizon beyond the opposite shore? That’s the Wall. I’ve never seen it before, but it’s hard to mistake a seven-hundred foot mass of ice. We’re hiding from the Night’s Watch.”

“Your point is?”

Boyd lowered his voice. “We’re picking up wildlings from beyond the wall and transporting them south. That’s all-around dangerous.” 

Malia watched him as if trying to come to a decision. “You’re pretty smart. If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have hired you. Sorry.” She offered him an apologetic smile. “On this side of the river, right over that peak, is Westwatch-By-The-Bridge. I had a raven sent there the day we left the Iron Islands. On that side of the river, maybe ten miles away from us, is the Shadow Tower. Westwatch is abandoned but the Shadow Tower is one of the three castles on the wall still maintained. And, yes, you’re right: we do not want to attract the Watch.” 

It was Boyd’s turn to frown.

“You’re being paid ten silver for a simple journey.”

“I’m being paid ten silver to smuggle contraband against the laws of the Seven Kingdoms. There’s a difference.”

Malia patted his shoulder. “Not much you can do about it now, eh?” 

She was right. There wasn’t much he could do about it, so he found a good place to settle down for the night. The other sailors had already started sharing some really cheap rum, but Boyd demurred. Malia wasn’t offered any, but she wouldn’t have taken it. She didn’t say anything, but she was keeping watch.

The sun vanished behind the peaks and the stars crept out, accompanied by a swelling gibbous moon. Cold winds rustled down from the Gorge and gripped the crew with icy fingers. Boyd wished he had a thicker blanket, as he drifted off to sleep.

It was through sheer luck he was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of voices. He opened one eye, but there was no obvious menace and no clash of steel. He wasn’t quite sure that when the wildlings arrived they wouldn’t kill them all in their sleep, so he slowly and carefully moved around until he could find the source of the voices.

Beyond a rough hummock, a group of a dozen men and women dressed in furs gathered. In the light of the gibbous moon, Boyd could spot Malia standing in the midst of them, but he couldn’t see her face. In the center of the group was a man and a woman. At the man’s feet, there rested a huge wolf.

“If you are so opposed to what I am doing, Laura, then why did you come to see me off?” The man with the wolf sounded belligerent and snide.

The woman in the center of the group did not back down. “You’re my uncle. I’m allowed to worry about you. I’m allowed to care about you even though I think you’re being an enormous ass. Besides, I wanted to meet my cousin.”

Malia chuckled. “I wanted to meet you as well.”

“Well, at least you have some idea of familial duty …”

“Peter.” The woman called Laura’s voice grew serious. “We’ve had this discussion before.”

“And it still doesn’t bother you at all?” Pete’s voice was teasing and yet full of malice. “They didn’t defeat us on the field of battle. They didn’t outmaneuver us in the courts. They murdered us in our sleep. They humiliated a family older than the Seven Kingdoms itself.”

“Of course it bothers me! I was there, remember? I was there when my beloved uncle managed to spirit his two favorite nieces out of a burning castle and into the woods, even though he was so badly hurt in the process I was sure he might die. So I chose to flee in order to save his life.”

“I know that.” Peter said with dignity. “I haven’t forgotten, but still I wish you would come with me and help me get justice. They rule our land. The woman who seduced and betrayed your brother now walks the streets where you and I grew up.”

“I know that. You know I know that.” 

“Then why won’t you come with me? All your reason sound like fear to me.” His voice was still sneering, but even Boyd could hear the pleading underneath it. 

“Uncle.” Laura’s voice was pleading. Out of the corner of his eye, Boyd saw the woman put a comforting hand on the man’s face. “Dear Uncle Peter. Killing a few southern lords, even the bitch who lit the fire, won’t cure these scars. It won’t rebuild the Hale House. It won’t bring our mother or our family back from the dead. All it will do is make more corpses, including, unless you’re very lucky, yours and your daughter’s and your son’s and all the men who follow you.”

Peter slapped Laura’s hand away. “It still sounds like fear to me. You’d have us disappear. You’d piss on the Hale legacy.”

“I think you’ve forgotten in your rage what you were taught. You have lived as Free Folk as well as I for six years. You know what’s happening out there. There are over one hundred thousand men, women and children living north of that damned Wall, and every single one of them will die ere Winter’s end unless we do something.”

“They’re not your people, Laura.”

“They’re people, uncle! Mance Rayder may have unified them, but he knows nothing of diplomacy. He knows nothing of siege craft. He knows nothing of the laws and customs of the south lands. I was taught these things by Mother since the day I could speak. I will go and offer my service to the King Beyond the Wall. Saving those people will be as great a legacy as any Hale could ask.”

Boyd couldn’t read their faces. This was an old argument, hashed out again and again. But he understood, that this wasn’t an argument either expected to win. They were saying farewell.

Laura spoke again, sadly. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Malia. I hope we can meet again. Cora, give your uncle a kiss.”

Another, younger woman came up and hugged the older man; he said out loud. “You can come with me, you know.” 

The young woman sighed. “I’m sorry, uncle. If I’m going to fight and die, I’ll do it for something worth fighting for.”

Laura, Cora, and half of the wildlings left, heading back up into the Gorge. Peter watched them go with Malia; six other wildlings waited beside the pair.

“Everything is ready?”

“Yes, father. I’ve got a boat, a crew, and a navigator who is good enough to sail us right up to the Cliffside docks.”

“Good. Katherine Argent has drawn breath for too long. We leave at dawn.”


	9. You Win or You Die

**Noah**

The carriage had just passed the edge of Winter Town when Ser Noah called the entourage to a halt. Lady Victoria immediately opened up the carriage door to see what had stopped their progress.

The knight assumed that most people who rode in carriages slept on long trips. There was little to do and the countryside’s rustic beauty would only entertain them for a while. However, whenever he had looked into the carriage during the day, Lady Victoria had always been awake. Most of the time she was reading a book. Once or twice she had been embroidering. Several times when he had checked, she had been sitting there staring out the window at nothing. 

“My lady, I wanted to see if you desired to stop for the night at an inn before arriving at Winterfell.” Noah was only asking because he felt travel-stained from the road and not fit for the court of the Warden of the North.

“I’m afraid that will be impossible. What is the most secure gate at Winterfell?”

Ser David road up to their discussion. “That would be the North Gate, my lady.”

“We’ll enter through there.” 

Ser Noah was confused. “My lady. We’re right next to the South Gate.”

“I have good reason,” Lady Victoria replied, as if that should be answer enough. 

“I don’t understand.”

“House Stark and House Lannister are presently at each other’s throats. You’ve heard what’s happening in the South. House Argent is pledged to House Lannister, yet we also have legal claim to Beacon Hills. We’re in a very difficult position, and by entering through the most heavily-fortified gate, I signal to our hosts that I understand the situation and I intend to do everything in my power to avoid taking sides.”

“And do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you plan to do everything in your power to avoid taking sides?”

Lady Victoria gave Noah an appraising glance. “How much do you know of House Argent?”

“You have a small keep west of Crakehall in the southern forest of the Westerlands called Lockwood. You’re known for being skilled hunters and are officially House Lannister’s Foresters. Unlike most houses in Westeros, titles descend in your family through your daughters. Lady Allison will inherit Beacon Hills, while Katherine is even now the Lady of Lockwood.”

“That is all true, and what anyone would say in polite company. I congratulate you.”

“Even a former hedge knight can learn etiquette, my lady.”

“Now, do you know what is spoken of my house in impolite company?”

“I would never speak of such rumors —”

“I am asking you to speak of it.”

Ser Noah was a brave man, and that mean he was not timid when asked to speak truth. “It’s said that when Lord Tywin has a task that makes even him hesitate, he turns to your father-in-law, Lord Gerard. When Lord Tywin put down the Reyne Rebellion, it was Lord Gerard who supervised the execution of every man, woman, and child in both House Reyne and House Tarbeck.”

“Lord Tywin gave the order, but my father-in-law oversaw the butchery, yes.” Lady Victoria said it without flinching. “You’ve been told what Lord Gerard is called, have you not?”

“The Lion’s Shadow.”

“It’s an apt name. In any struggle between House Stark and House Lannister, there is a significant chance that less-than-honorable means will be employed …”

“By the Lannisters.”

Lady Victoria shrugged effortlessly. “As you say. And most likely, it will be my father-in-law making sure those things get done. If you were Robb Stark, what would you think about my presence right now?”

“I would be concerned. Especially since someone recently tried to murder Brandon Stark.”

“It’s the only reason that the permission for the marriage couldn’t be done by a messenger or a raven. Robb Stark may be young, but he comprehends that he needs to take my measure. It’s a wise move. It’s an honorable move.”

“So you’re not offended?”

The woman laughed. “I would be more offended if he hadn’t taken these steps. Do not worry, Ser Noah. I have no plans to ask you to do anything underhanded.”

The knight bowed slightly. “For now.”

“For now.” She did not smile at Ser Noah but she opened the door to the carriage. “Tie your horse to the wagon, I would speak with you on the ride around the castle.”

The carriage jolted back to life and Ser Noah stirred uncomfortably in his seat. He thought it would have been more comfortable than riding a horse, since most noble women were unable to ride long distances, but the Argent’s carriage was all hard wood and narrow seats.

“This is about a delicate matter.” 

“My son.”

Lady Victoria’s eyes flew open in surprise. 

“We just discussed your house’s reputation in the open air, but you asked me to come inside to talk. You’re not concerned about your sensibilities; you’re concerned about my feelings. When most people are concerned about embarrassing me, they tend to be talking about my son.”

“You’re clever.”

“So is he; cleverer than me.” Ser Noah raised a hand. “My son will never be a great rider. He will never win a tournament. He will never be a warrior to be feared on the battlefield. The idea of my son participating in war at all fills me with dread. But my son has worth, and I am very proud of him.”

The noble woman folder her hands in front of her. “Go on.”

“On the surface, he can seem frivolous, but that is only because he sees beyond the surface of things. I beg your pardon in saying this, but he knows that a king can act like the lowest commoner, and a beggar can be as determined as any lord. He can seem unfocused, but that is only because he sees everything, where most men only observe what is right in front of their noses.”

“And yet he is still a squire.”

“The North is now my home, and in many ways it is a much better place to live than where I came from. It respects honesty, and honor, and truth, and what a man can do with the strength of his own hands. But it is also equates cunning with treachery, and subtlety with lies. The truth is that we cannot act as if every man is free to speak his own mind without danger, and that is what someone charged with keeping the peace must understand.”

She put her finger to her lips. “If your son is as talented as you say, maybe it is best that he should be knighted.”

Ser Noah frowned. 

“You don’t agree?”

“If he’s knighted, he’ll be expected to fight without me by his side. I’ll be unable to protect him.”

Lady Victoria nodded. “He’s a man now. He’ll never reach his full potential if he remains forever by your side. And, as you say, the North may not be the place for him. Mayhap it would be best if he returns to the South with me, once my daughter takes the rule of Beacon Hills after the wedding.”

Noah felt torn in two. Every father wanted a life of opportunity for his children; he was no different. He was from the Riverlands originally, and he knew that a man of his son’s talents would do better someplace like that. But the thought of Stiles a thousand miles away filled him with dread. Stiles was the only thing he had left in this world.

“We shall talk of it again. Now, we should ready ourselves for this meeting with the Stark boy.”

When they reached the courtyard, Lady Victoria chose to let only Ser David and Ser Noah accompany her into the Great Hall of Winterfell. Robb Stark sat in the simple wooden throne staring at a pile of papers in front of him. To his left, sat the crippled Brandon Stark and to his right sat the castle’s maester, Luwin. Standing directly behind the chair was Theon Greyjoy, the hostage from the Iron Islands, looking smug. 

“Lady Argent.” Robb Stark’s mien was solemn and dignified, but there was hostility resting behind his face. He saw her as an ally of the Lannisters. 

“Lord Stark.” She curtsied appropriately. “I appreciate the hospitality of your home.”

“Were it under better times. What may I do for you?”

Lady Victoria pursed her lips. “As you know, the lordship of Beacon Hills and the surrounding lands have been left vague for six years. I have pursued a course of action that will resolve the matter in that I have arranged for my daughter, Allison, to marry the son of House Argent’s steward, Ser Whittemore. You know of Ser Jackson?”

Robb’s eyes glanced at the maester next to him. “I’ve been told about him.” 

Lady Victoria and the young Lord of Winterfell locked eyes. Something secret was known by the two of them that Noah did not know. That was fine with him; he was glad sometimes that his place wasn’t to know everything. 

“Lord Glover, as our direct liege, has given permission for it to happen, but on the condition that I gain your permission, my lord.” Lady Victoria’s voice took on the tenor as if they were discussing water rights. 

“You did not ask when you visited us last time, Lady Argent.”

“I had not yet met the young Ser Jackson. Any mother would be cautious about who her beloved daughter might marry.”

“Any mother would.” Robb Stark stood. “This is a matter that I’d like to discuss with you at some length. Be our guests. Theon, would you show Lady Argent and her retinue to the quarters we’ve prepared for them.”

Ser Noah didn’t understand politics that much, but he knew a difficult situation when he walked into one.

**Scott**

“You can’t ignore this, Scott!” Stiles paced around the narrow confines of Scott’s quarters, agitated and maybe a little angry.

“I’m not ignoring it. I believe you.” Night had fallen, and his chores were all done. As much as he understood Stiles’ anxiety, Scott only wished to take his moonflower and then to go to sleep. He’d been sleeping a lot ever since he’d been threatened by Ser Jackson. It was the only time he really felt safe. 

“Then what are we going to do about it?” Stiles demanded.

“There’s nothing we can do about it right now. Your father is gone. Ser David is gone. We can to talk to them when they get back, and they might be willing to go to Lady Victoria.”

“Even if their journey was without incident, they’ve only now arrived at Winterfell. If they left tomorrow, it could be a week before they got back. Whatever Lady Katherine is planning might have happened by then. We can’t wait to find out the truth.”

Scott stopped himself from shaking his head in outright refusal. He had always both loved and hated the times when Stiles grew excited about something. He loved it because it was always _we_. It warmed his heart that Stiles would never hold his greater position over him; they were as close as brothers. But, at the same time, Stiles forgot that good intentions didn’t mean much, and if they got in trouble, Scott would be in a far worse position, as Ser Jackson had recently, and pointedly, reminded him. A kennel master was in no position to work against the desires of the nobility.

Stiles was looking at him as if he was expecting Scott to answer and that the answer would be yes. 

“What would you have me do, Stiles?”

“You could talk to Lady Allison, see if she knows more about what her aunt planning.” Stiles suggested, his hands held up and palms out. “She might not have all the truth, but she could give us more than what we have now.”

“You were the one who told me to avoid her! You were the one who told me I could get myself killed if I talked to her. You were the one who said it was probably for the best that Ser Jackson swung a sword at me to keep me away from her.”

Stiles shifted posture uncomfortably. “That was then.”

Scott narrowed his eyes in frustration.

“I’m not saying you need to go woo her like a moon-eyed calf. We could go together and talk to her. It’d be perfectly safe.”

Scott was suddenly consumed by a growing rage. All he had done was talk with her, and now he had to watch where his eyes wandered or some crazed knight would murder him. “Why should I?”

“Because you can.” Stiles said it with conviction. “Because I can’t do this alone.”

“You want me to risk my life on your hunch?” Scott replied, harshly. “You want me to use my friendship with Lady Allison to get you what you want?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“That’s what it sounds like to me. It sounds like you think your need to find out what is going on outweighs any objection I could possibly have. You’re like that lunatic wildling at the Hale House, drafting me to be his agent for his grand scheme, regardless of what I wanted. All I can think is that if we do this and it fails, at least you’ll have a sword to defend yourself.”

Stiles stopped his frantic pacing with a jerk, and Scott understood that it had finally registered with him that Scott was refusing. Stiles had simply assumed that Scott would go along in time, as Scott always went along with his plans since they had first met. Now, his friend looked bewildered and pained. 

“You scolded me for endangering myself by reaching above my station, regardless of how I felt or what I wanted. You said it was foolish. But that doesn’t matter _now_ since you have a mystery to solve.” 

Scott couldn’t bear the look in Stiles eyes, but he had said his peace. He sat down on the bed and began to dig out his moonflower and the smoking grate. He assumed that Stiles would simply leave.

Instead, Stiles sat down next to him on his bed. He was looking at his hands. “You’re right. None of that matters now, and I know I’m asking a great deal of you.”

“You’re asking me to defy Ser Jackson for nothing but a feeling in your gut.”

“The feelings in my gut have often been right.” He offered with a smile.

“Yeah. And the last one we acted on ended with a sigil carved and burned into my side.” Scott put the grate down; he hated to bring the events of that night up like that, but it was true. “You’re my friend. You’ve always been my friend, and I’ve always followed you. But you’re asking me to risk much more than you, and, for the first time, I have to ask why I should.”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t sure that I’m right about her.”

“I know. I also know that you’re not the one who was captured by a madman and his trained wolf. You’re not the one who could have been cut down in the middle of a forest by a jealous knight. Six months ago, I was content with what I have, and now I’m afraid all the time. So, it doesn’t matter if you’re right or not.”

Stiles sighed then. 

Scott felt this his spine stiffen. “If you’re going to call me craven, you can leave.”

“What? I’m … I’m not.”

“You’re upset that I won’t just do what you want.”

“No!” Stiles shook his head strongly. “Well, yes, but I understand why …”

“No you don’t.” Scott said bitterly. “I’ve tried to explain it to you, but trying to get you listen to something you don’t want to hear is like trying to keep this smoke from floating away.”

Stiles was quiet on the bed next to him. Scott started to burn the moonflower; its scent filled the air. 

“Do you remember when we got in trouble for borrowing Mistress Flemming’s goat?” Stiles said at last.

Scott brought the grate to his nose and nodded before inhaling.

“It got away from us and fell into a gully. We couldn’t get it out.” 

Scott felt the smoke burn its way inside him, as it always did. He grunted shallowly so Stiles could tell he was listening.

“And we were so scared, but then again, we were six. So I made up a lie about bandits stealing Mistress Flemming’s goat, but you wouldn’t let me tell it. You went to her and told her the truth.”

The smoke came out slowly, and his lungs felt like they were being cooked in an over, as they always did. “Yeah,” he said weakly. “We got whipped.”

“We deserved it.” Stiles said. “The goat had to be put down, and you know how expensive they are. But that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you’re braver than I am. Because we were going to get into big trouble, and yet you marched right up to her and told her what we’d done. You did it because it was the right thing to do.”

Scott pushed Stiles out of his way so he could lie down on the bed. The treatment always worked better if he could lay flat. Stiles shifted so he could lie down but he didn’t leave the bed.

“Scott, I know she’s going to do something. If you tell me that it’s the right thing for us to do nothing, then I’ll believe you. I won’t do anything.”

Scott closed his eyes as he lay down on the bed. He hadn’t lied before. He did believe that Stiles had found something. He’d seen his friend work out more difficult puzzles, and it wasn’t hard to believe that a woman as cruel as Katherine Argent would be up to no good.

He could claim that he was simply being a loyal. He was a commoner who lived on Argent land, so that made him a vassal. Vassals aided their lords; they didn’t question their actions or thwart them. 

But Beacon Hills had survived for six years with no lords. Ser David and Ser Noah had kept the peace. Was it right that a deranged wildling or a cruel noble could end that peace for their own reasons? Scott already knew the answer.

“What do you want me to do?”

Stiles smiled slightly, turning up the corners of his mouth. “As I said, we need to talk to Lady Allison.”

**Lydia**

Lydia folded the letter from Allison and slid it into the sash around her waist. She would reread it at least once more before she destroyed it. Allison had confided that she had found a young commoner far more interesting and worthy of her attention than the knight to which she was betrothed. It was every bit the interesting gossip that Lydia had desired.

Her friend’s shock at Lady Katherine’s suggestion she take the young man as a lover was not surprising. Lydia had never thought Allison a prude nor had she thought of her an innocent. Allison had simply seemed disinterested in the games of love. Lydia believed it came from the emphasis that House Argent put on their women mastering all sorts of skills that most noblewomen couldn’t contemplate learning 

Highgarden was far different than where Allison grew up. There the games of love were considered the highest form of entertainment and the proper arena for showing one’s skills. No one would bat an eye if the rumor reached them that a noble lady took a handsome servant to her bed. They would only be horrified if it became public knowledge that she had done so. In fact, the most respect was reserved for those who accomplished the most wicked things and still appeared to be of the highest virtue.

Lydia left the portico she was using for privacy and headed toward the hall where the evening meal would be served. It was a matter of custom for the Tyrell entourage to eat together, because it was a perfect time for sharing interesting stories and scandalous gossip that they had picked up over the day. Lydia wouldn’t have much to say this evening. She’d spent the day in her rooms, reading a book she had bought in the markets, while waiting impatiently for Allison’s letter to arrive.

The had just started on the main course, and Jeyne Hightower was beginning to share a story about how terrible Lancel Lannister was at flirting when the doors to the main hall were flung open. Ser Loras and a half-dozen of his men stormed into the room.

Lydia had nothing but affection for the Knight of the Flowers. While she was a few rungs down on the social ladder of Highgarden, they had grown up together. He had always treated her decently, and he had never once reminded her of the difference in their status. He was a fine knight and truly beautiful; the fact that he so obviously preferred the company of other men was the only disappointment for Lydia. She never really held it against him. 

“Forgive me.” His voice carried across the hall, silencing all conversation. “I’m afraid I must put an end to your dinner; take what refreshment you need to your rooms and pack your belongings. All of us must be ready to leave at nightfall.”

The tone of the Heir to Highgarden’s voice brooked no dispute. Everyone got up from their table, some managing to snag a few parcels of food to go, and started back to their quarters. Lydia had almost reached the stairs that led up to her own chamber when Ser Loras called for her.

“Lady Martin? May I have a word with you?”

Lydia turned and walked back to where Ser Loras was speaking with the seneschal of the Tyrell estate in King’s Landing. The portly man was excellent at managing household matters but when it came to things that were evenly slightly dangerous he fell apart.

“Once we’re gone,” Ser Loras insisted, “all you have to do is tell the truth. No one will gain anything from hurting you.”

“Are you sure, my lord?” The seneschal was sweating. 

“I am. Now, I want everyone to be ready leave immediately upon nightfall. See to it.”

The seneschal ran off to do exactly that, and Lydia curtsied to Ser Loras. “How may I be of service, my lord?” 

Ser Loras looked around to see if anyone else was close. “Come with me.”

She followed the Knight of the Flowers into an inner study. These rooms had no windows and only one entrance. They were designed for private conversations.

Lydia fidgeted nervously. She had the most uncomfortable feeling that this was going to be about her grandmother. 

“The King will not survive the night.” No preamble. No hesitation. 

“That’s terrible news, my lord.” 

Ser Loras shrugged as if that was the least important news he had to share. “The Hand of the King has discovered that Robert’s children are incestuous bastards of Queen Cersei and her brother.”

Lydia swallowed at the importance of this revelation and what it meant for her. There was only one reason that he would be telling her this news. He was going to ask her a question. She wanted garden parties and court balls and romance for all her days and a good book for her nights; she didn’t want to be drawn into things because of her family’s secret. 

“The Hand refuses to move against the Queen until after the King is dead, but by then it will be too late for him. It will not be too late for Prince Renly, who will claim the throne with the backing of House Tyrell.” Loras sounded like he was trying to make those statements true by will alone.

“Civil war is terrible, my lord, but I don’t see how I can help.”

Loras scowled at her. “My father told me everything that happened, Lady Martin.”

Lydia bit her lip. “I am not _my_ grandmother, Ser Loras. She was the one who could utter prophesies. I have never done so.” 

“Yes, I know. Yet, she claimed that ability would be passed down through her bloodline, which is why you are Lady Martin, Lydia. If it hadn’t been for her promise, she’d have been a farmer’s wife, and so would you. You can hardly understand how much I care for Prince Renly. If there is any chance you can foresee what will happen to him, I beg you to try.”

The knight’s words were true. Her grandmother had been married to a knight of the court, and they had been raised to a lordship because of a timely prediction. The whole court knew that Lorraine had been nothing but a woods witch, and she had helped Luthor Tyrell avoid a terribly embarrassing political foul up. 

She had no intention of endangering that now. “I will try, Ser Loras.”

Lydia had never talked with her beloved grandmother about her famous prediction. She had heard descriptions of it from various members of the court and read about it in books she had borrowed from Highgarden’s formidable library, but she had never need to ask Lorraine. Truth to be told, Lydia suspected that there was no magic involved, just a very perceptive and intelligent woman who understood the need to sooth male egos.

She turned to the Knight of the Flowers and said with what she hoped was confidence. “I will need some blood. Then you must ask a question.” 

Without hesitation Loras took out a dagger and cut his thumb. _He really is dedicated to Renly,_ Lydia thought. _So romantic._

She took the blood in a cup from one of the tables and mixed it with wine. Her grandmother had tasted it straight from the wound, but Lydia was born a lady, thank you very much. She did, however, drain the entire cup in one go. She closed her eyes. She would wait for the question and then apologize when nothing happened. 

“How can I best make Renly Baratheon king?”

Lydia drew one breath. Then another breath. And then a third. Slowly she took them in and slowly she let them out. That should be enough of a display to convince Ser Loras she had actually tried.

But as the last breath finally left her lips, she felt dizzy and stumbled forward. Images flew past the windows in her mind too quickly for her to make sense, and she could feel the knight steady her before she fell over. She tried to hold onto Loras’ question, readying an apology, but something else came out of her mouth instead.

“As long as you are by his side, King Renly will never find his death on the battlefield.” 

The Knight of the Flowers was smiling but Lydia was shaking. In those brief glimpses, she had seen so many people die. She had seen a terrible war. It was overwhelming; it was bewildering. 

It was everything she had never wanted.

**Allison**

Allison didn’t know what to do with her arms. Her mother, when dealing with matters of rule, always seemed to be perfectly poised. When Lady Victoria deigned to move, it meant something. She didn’t fidget, or slouch, or yawn. Allison, on the other hand, felt like the absolutely most important thing she could do right now is figure out what to do with her hands.

Stiles and Scott were standing before her. The squire was tightly wound, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to talk and share what he knew. Scott was staring fixedly on the ground between them, determined and respectful but she could sense his reluctance to speak to her.

She found herself faintly angry with him. She was being unfair, ridiculous even, but she couldn’t shake her irritation that Scott had only come to speak to her when pushed by the squire. Allison wanted to Scott to have been brave enough to come to speak to her regardless of what it seemed like to others or how it fed Ser Jackson’s jealousy.

She tried to beat down the anger. It was childish, like one of those prattling ninnies at court who daydreamed of gallant knights in a fight to the death for their favor. The least that could have happened if Scott had defied Ser Jackson or raised the suspicion of her mother would have been that the kennel master would have lost his permission. The worst that could have happened is that he’d be lying in the ground somewhere. 

And that, she realized, she could not abide.

“My lady, we … I mean I … I mean we had a question that we needed to ask you. It’s important but not immediately important. No one will die tonight. Well, I can’t actually say that, and that is one of the reasons we have to ask you about this. You see, something may seem very dire and suspicious and then, when you know more about it, the dire event turns out not to be suspicious at all. So, we’ve come here with the knowledge that this may be for nothing, and yet, it could very well be something. Which is where you come in.”

Scott had stopped staring at the floor and turned to look at Stiles in growing horror.

Allison was smiling. “Perhaps you could ask me the question first.”

“Forgive me, my lady. This is the first time I’ve talked to someone about … something like this, when that person wasn’t my father.”

Scott nudged Stiles to get on with it.

“Oh, yes. Do you know why your aunt came north with you?” 

Allison’s smile vanished. It should have surprised her that these two would dare ask about her aunt, but down deep inside, she wasn’t surprised at all. 

“My aunt said she came to help us bring rule to these lands that have long been lordless. Ser David has tried his best, but he was but a steward.” 

Stiles nodded as if had listened to what she had said. “And do you think she was telling the truth?”

“That’s a little bold!” Allison didn’t know what Stiles felt he was doing with the implications of that question. Stiles wilted a bit.

“Lady Allison,” Scott said softly. “My friend and I have seen your aunt do some questionable things. We would not come to you … milady … if we didn’t feel we had no choice.”

Allison moved her attention back to the commoner and she was looking at him. He was right. Scott wouldn’t behave badly even though she could now plainly see in his eyes the emotion that had drove Jackson mad with jealousy. 

Her mother and father would have reacted differently to these men’s approach. Neither of her parents liked Katherine, but they stuck by their family no matter what. Ser Christopher would dismiss these men roughly, warning them to pay attention to their own affairs, and ignore the situation until he couldn’t. Lady Victoria would remind them that they were in no position to questions the actions of the nobility and then quietly and behind the scenes found out what exactly Lady Katherine was doing.

Allison was going to rule her way. Scott and Stiles could have no secret agenda that benefited them. “Tell me.”

Stile explained all what he had discovered when he had followed her aunt. It was strange that Katherine would go to such a rough place. She flinched when she heard the story about the dog and the hunt, but she had heard other stories about her aunt’s casual cruelty.

“Let’s say that your supposition is correct, squire.” Allison reasoned. “You may not have heard about our family’s reputation, but anyone who could censure us would not be surprised that we sometimes do things that other families wouldn’t. On the other hand, what would she need to do that she couldn’t use our loyal men?” 

Stiles grimaced. “Something that if it was able to be connected to your house, could cause a war?” 

“I don’t know what that could possibly be,” Allison argued. “You don’t know what that could be.”

“Maester Alan might,” suggested Scott. 

Lady Allison nodded. He might indeed.


	10. The Pointy End

**Kate**

The difference between a good hunter and a poor hunter, Kate had always been taught by her father, was patience. The poor hunter was always convinced that there was something they could do, somewhere they could go, some trick they could pull to force their prey to be vulnerable to the killing blow. It was arrogance to act too soon, and it was foolishness to assume every gambit would succeed. You had to let the prey walk itself into the killing blow, and that took time and discipline.

The difference between a good hunter and a great hunter, Kate had also been taught by her father, was instinct. A hunter wasn’t building a house. A hunter wasn’t sewing a dress. All the thousand details that could shift with the rise of the wind or a bird being startled couldn’t be calculated beforehand. You had to trust in your ability to feel the ties between the hunter and the prey. If you could master that, they could never escape you.

So she had been patient. She had been sent along with her sister-in-law and her niece to insure that if Victoria’s plans to marry Allison to the Hale bastard fell through as a failsafe. Kate didn’t care about the increased influence a successful journey would give House Argent, honestly. Politics was boring, so she left all of it to the other adults of her family. She simply set it up so she could easily make sure that Ser Jackson, Peter Hale’s unaware son, suffered a terrible and unforeseen death.

It would be simple; she had easily put a plan in place. She had learned where Jackson practiced alone, and she had befriend a bunch of scum from the town. When and if the time came to tie up that loose end, she’d have them ‘rob’ him, making sure he died in the process, and then her and her men would kill the bandit filth that had murdered an honorable knight. 

But it wasn’t simple. First, she’d discovered that Allison wasn’t at the house which she shared with Victoria. Victoria was away at Winterfell, and Kate thought she might take Allison on a ride. She hated being cooped up with nothing to do. But Allison’s favorite horse had been gone since early in the morning. The soon-to-be Lady of Beacon Hills hadn’t come back for lunch at all, so Kate had saddled her own horse. She decided to check the Whittemore’s keep. Perhaps Allison had not really given up the kennel master like she said she had.

Kate had taken that opportunity when it had presented itself. She understood that Allison and the servant hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but by planting a little seed of doubt in Allison and a much larger seed of both doubt and jealousy in Ser Whittemore, she had taken turned it into an advantage nonetheless. If Allison no longer thought as highly of Ser Jackson because his jealousy had made him hurt or even kill the inconsequential kennel master, her niece might not be interested in looking to closely at the death of the knight.

As she approached the keep, she couldn’t help but feel if something was off. She increased the pace of her horse and road around to the stables. They were locked. So were the kennels. She went and banged on the shack where the kennel master lived, and there was no answer.

Kate smiled to herself. Maybe Allison _had_ decided to spite everyone and have a little fun with the dog boy before the wedding. Good for her. She tied up her own horse and went around to the front gate. The usual people were busy working in the usual places. Rural households were so predictable.

“Where is Ser Jackson?” She demanded of the first servant she met.

“I don’t know, milady. He went riding.” 

“Riding? With whom?” 

“The Lady Allison, Squire Stilinski, and Scott.” 

Kate frowned. That was an odd combination. “When did they leave?”

“An hour before lunch.” 

“Did they say where they were going?”

“Not to me, milady.”

“Who might know?” Kate’s instincts told her that something was amiss. 

“They were with Maester Alan before they left.”

She didn’t bother to say anything else to the servant. The maester had made it clear that he didn’t like her and had all but said that he considered her responsible for the fire. She hadn’t done anything about it, because the maester had never once inserted himself in the political storm that came after the fire. He hadn’t gone to the Warden of the North with his concerns. He hadn’t undermined the Argent claim in any way. Perhaps he wasn’t confident of his ability to do so, or he was too much of a coward to try. Either way, it made him irrelevant to her.

“Maester!” she shouted as she threw open the door to his rooms. 

“You need my assistance, Lady Katherine?” He emerged from his back room pulling his chain over his head. He seemed as infuriatingly calm as ever. 

“Do you know where my niece and Ser Jackson went?”

“Yes, I do.”

Kate stared at him, waiting for him to continue. When she realized he wasn’t going to, she held herself back from punching him. 

“Are you going to tell me?”

“No. I don’t think I will.”

“You would refuse to do your duty?”

“My duty is to the lady of this land, which at the present time, is Lady Victoria until it passes to Lady Allison. I owe you nothing, Lady Katherine.”

Kate remember that patience was better than anger, and threats more effective than rage. She openly pulled a dagger from her belt. “So you won’t tell me where they went. Will you tell me why the left?”

“Yes. They left in response to the ravens I received last night and this morning.” The maester seemed nonplussed by the dagger and removed a trio of raven’s scrolls from his sleeves.

“I hate reading. Why don’t you tell me what they say?”

“King Robert has died. It was an accident while boar hunting.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “The fool died drunk, I bet. I can’t tell you how many times I saved his fat ass from that very fate.” She didn’t mind badmouthing Robert now that he was dead, and it would impart to the maester how serious she was. She flipped the dagger over, as she had practiced so many times. 

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” 

“No, you wouldn’t. Not in this forgotten refuse pit on the edge of the world. But that doesn’t tell me why Allison and her betrothed rode off on a secret mission.”

“The second scroll announced that the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, has been arrested for treason. He tried to prevent Joffrey’s ascension to the throne.”

Kate stopped flipping the dagger; in fact, she barely held onto it. For an instant, she wished that her father was here or even Lady Victoria in order to make sure she understood the subtleties of what was transpiring. 

“Ha!” She laughed. “Stark was a snooty ass. I would have loved to see the look on his face. Serves him right for judging me.”

“He could have lawfully taken your head.”

“Yeah. He could have tried. But now he’ll not get the chance. Go on, tell me about the third scroll.”

“Robb Stark has called the banners of the North to free Eddard Stark.” 

Her eyes narrowed. Her pulse quickened. She cursed to herself repeatedly. She had one task in this place, and it was time to complete it. But her prey had simply vanished …

“How did you know?”

“That you planned to kill Ser Jackson to insure House Argent kept control of Beacon Hills? I did not. I should have, to be quite honest. It was Squire Stilinski who figured it out.”

“That meddlesome prick. You sent them to Winterfell.”

“I sent them nowhere, Lady Katherine. I don’t presume to order knights and ladies about.”

Katherine got up in his face. “Yet you told Lady Allison everything.”

“I told her nothing.” Maester Alan looked her straight in the eyes; behind the mask of calm, she could see the anger. “Stiles told her the most. She figured out the rest. She is a fine young woman. Much better than her aunt.” 

“True.” Lady Katherine gritted her teeth. “She’s much better than me. For instance, she wouldn’t do this out of spite.” 

She stabbed the maester in the gut with her dagger. He clutched at the wound and she jerked the knife out. 

“Don’t think for one moment that Ser Jackson is going to get away. He’ll never make it to Winterfell. I’ll bury him, and the squire, and the dog boy of which you’re so fond right next to you.” 

She spit on the man as he fell over and stalked out of the room.

**Jackson**

Jackson bumped along the trail; his horse seemed determined to find every log and stone on the path. He was a great horseman, so he wasn’t too uncomfortable. It was a relatively beautiful afternoon, so he wasn’t cold and wet. But he was humiliated and he was definitely angry. He scowled at the three people riding in front of him.

“You know, in the eyes of the laws of Gods and men, this is kidnapping.”

None of the trio responded to him, and Jackson thought about throwing himself off his horse to be petty. They’d have to stop and set himself back on his horse. But if he did that, they might tie more than his hands, and he didn’t think his pride could survive any more blows like that. It was bad enough that a commoner was leading him on his horse through the woods.

“I don’t appreciate being treated this way. Especially for what is essentially a mistake.” 

Scott looked over his shoulder and shook his head. Lady Allison and that dumb squire didn’t even look back. 

“Even if I believe you, and I’m the bastard son of Lord Peter Hale and Lady Cerwyn — which I don’t believe because it makes my entire life a lie and my father and mother liars — and even if I believed you that Lady Katherine would desire my death for some reason or another, it doesn’t change the truth that I shouldn’t be _running._ ”

Almost in unison, Scott, Stiles, and the Lady Allison sighed. 

“I’m tied to the back of my horse and we’re fleeing through the woods to a destination you haven’t seen fit to share with me, when there are people impugning my honor at home and when the Lord of Winterfell has called for the banners, which I _should answer._ ” His voice rose in anger and frustration. “These are the things for which I have spent my entire life training and oaths I have sworn, from which now my betrothed, my dog boy, and a moron are dragging me away!”

Lady Allison let her horse fall back so she was riding to keep pace with him. “I know this is hard for you to accept.”

“I’m glad you understand that!”

“But it’s for your own good. You’ve heard the stories about my family and what my grandfather does for his liege. You’ve heard the stories about my aunt.”

Jackson had not actually heard stories of the Argents. To be honest, he hadn’t paid attention when the maester had told him stories of House Argent. It was enough for him that they were an influential southern house. When these three had come to him with tales of him being in danger, he had scoffed loudly.

“Stories aren’t the truth.”

That bolt struck its mark. The huntress rode alongside of him as they passed through the woods. She was looking down at the path in front of them. It stretched through the woods. Nature pressed on them from every side.

“I know that stories aren’t the truth. But I’m not naive. And I’m not blind. I’ve learned everything my family has wanted me to learn. I know that my grandfather doesn’t sit on Tywin Lannister’s council because he needs input from the person in charge of his forests. I know that my aunt didn’t earn the animosity of the Warden of the North because she hunted with the King.” 

“I think …” She took a deep breath. “I think she is willing to do anything to extend the power of my family. I think that she’s willing to do things of which my mother doesn’t approve, which is why they don’t like each other. I think … I think she burned down the Hale House and killed all the Hales except her husband and you.”

The kennel master jerked up straight at that. He turned around, but before he could say anything, Stiles shook his head vigorously to silence him. 

“There’s no other reason she would have for coming back here except to finish what she started. It’s dangerous for her here, even more so now. She’s here to make sure you’re no longer a threat, and now that Lannisters and Starks may go to war, the only way to do that is to kill you.”

She said it so earnestly with so much expression that Jackson almost believed that she truly cared for him. He knew that he had had her respect until his jealousy towards Scott, but he thought their relationship would ever be about political advantage and not true feelings. 

“I appreciate the warning, my lady,” Jackson said carefully. “But if she is coming for me, I should face her head on. I’m not a helpless child; I’m an anointed knight.”

At this, Stiles stopped his whispered conversation with Scott and turned his horse completely around. “Yes, yes, yes! You’re an anointed knight. You’re also a bloody fool!”

Now it was Scott’s turn to intervene. “We should keep moving.”

“We’ll move when this donkey’s ass understands what we’re doing to keep him alive!” Stiles said exasperatedly. 

Jackson felt the rage rise in his stomach. “How dare you speak to me like that?”

“I think it’s necessary otherwise that enormous block of wood you call a head will be loosed from your shoulders. Do you think she’s going to challenge you on the field battle, with banners flapping in the breeze, you big galloping lummox!”

“She should —”

“If you haven’t noticed, Lady Katherine isn’t particularly interested in what she _should_ do. She’s not going to recruit ruffians and bandits to be her cheering section at a tourney. She’s going to try to kill you and make it look like a terrible tragedy.”

“And now she can’t!” Jackson had to get them to understand what they were doing. 

“She still outnumbers us! My father and your father are at Winterfell. That leaves you, me, and four men at arms in the village who even own swords, let alone know how to use them.” He puts his hands on his waist. “And yes, before you say it, I know I’m pathetic with a blade. So not my point.”

Jackson opened his mouth. He hadn’t been going to say that. He had been surprised instead that the squire was going to fight for him.

“I can fight as well,” Lady Allison stated. 

Stiles quirked the corners of his lips into a smile. “I would never ask you to fight against your own kin. Now even if we can fully trust your father’s men-at-arms, which I’m not sure we can, that leaves six of us against Lady Katherine, the half-dozen men-at-arms the Argents brought with them and maybe a dozen cut-throats she’s roped into doing her dirty work! That’s three to one odds!”

Jackson gripped his reins, even with his hands tied together. They just didn’t understand. He had sweated for the skills he had. He had bled for the skills he had. He had worked hours and hours and hours to be one thing — a great knight. And the one thing that great knights did not do was run from a fight. No one wrote songs about the knight who fled town before his enemies came for him. 

Lady Allison and the squire were most likely correct. Lady Katherine’s ruthlessness would put him at a disadvantage. He couldn’t count on a fair fight from her. They would be outnumbered, and they would most likely die.

But every knight that swore his oath before the Father understood that death was part of the life they had chosen. Knights weren’t supposed to be cowards. That’s why they were given respect. And if he ran all the way to safety, he might as well have been a bricklayer than worked so hard to learn a knight’s skills. Jackson lifted his head and jutted out his chin. 

“Nothing you have said makes what we are doing right.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned his horse back on the trail. Lady Allison gave him a blank stare as if she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying and started riding again. 

Jackson waited for his horse to be jolted into motion once more, but it didn’t come. When he turned to his left, Scott had gotten off his horse and come to his side.

“You said your vows as a knight? What were they?” The kennel man was looking up at him.

Jackson sneered at him, but it didn’t make Scott move. His servant was looking at him strangely, like he was trying to understand him.

“What were they?” Scott said again.

“A knight must defend the weak and innocent, must protect women and children, must fight fairly and honorably, and obey their lieges. Everyone knows that.”

“You don’t want to leave because you think you’ll break your vows, but you know that if you fight them, you’ll most likely kill men who have no real reason to kill you, men who just want a little coin. Some of them may have wives and children.”

“So?”

“The only thing defended if you go back is your pride. How do you protect women and children if you kill their husbands or fathers? A true knight would avoid a battle that has no point but death.”

“How dare you!” Jackson said. “If I weren’t tied up!”

Scott drew a hoof knife from his belt. With one motion he sliced through the ropes holding his wrist. Stiles caught it out of the corner of the eye, but he was too late to stop it. “You know I’m right.”

The world froze for Jackson. He was suddenly free. He could strike Scott as he had threatened. He could turn and race back to Beacon Hills. No longer was anyone forcing their decisions on him, nor could they. He was the best fighter here, and they wouldn’t take him by surprise again. It was now his decision. It had been easy to be angry when he couldn’t do anything else, but now, he had to make a choice. 

What type of knight was he? 

Jackson drew himself up into the saddle to his full height, looking scornfully down at the dog boy. “Fetch me my sword,” he commanded.

Scott turned his head to his side, studying him. “Yes, milord.” 

“Now someone want to tell me why we’re _not_ heading toward Winterfell?” 

While Scott rushed to bring his sword and scabbard back to him, Stiles and Allison looked at each other. Allison smiled and Stiles shrugged.

“It was my idea,” the squire admitted. “The most obvious course of action would be for us to head directly to Winterfell, to Lord Stark and Lady Argent. Lady Katherine could theoretically catch up with us. We don’t want to get into a fight, so I thought we would instead head towards Deepwood Motte. It’s closer, Lord Glover is technically Lady Allison’s direct liege, and he’ll be mustering as well.” 

Jackson had to admit it was clever. “Is this acceptable to you, my lady Allison?”

“Of course, Ser Jackson.”

Scott had returned with his sword and scabbard. Jackson belted it on with authority. “I’ll take the lead.”

**Victoria**

Victoria was sitting with Ser David in her room at Winterfell. The famed capital of the North was a surprising, yet interesting, conundrum to her. The rooms were unattractive: gray stone on gray stone, with very little in the way wall coverings. They were also narrow and low-ceilinged. Most of the attention in the rooms was paid to the furnishings: sturdy chairs, heavy tables, and ridiculous beds.

It made a sort of utilitarian sense. Winterfell managed to remain not only livable but comfortable during the depths of Winter because of the natural hot springs that were channeled through its many walls. Plaster and wall hangings would not be useful in this situation; in fact, they might interfere with the heat moving through the walls. The beds were also a response to the coldest season. Designed for warmth, to Victoria, they were already ridiculous hot.

She definitely preferred the more elegant styles of the Westerlands and King’s Landing, but she could make do with what she had. She was sitting in a chair that might have weighed as much as she did at the table, but it didn’t stop her from writing a letter to her husband.

They understood when they got married that the family would always come first. One of the things that meant is that they would be separated for months at a time. Christopher was his father’s agent in King’s Landing, while Lady Victoria oversaw House Argent’s trade with other houses. They were the public faces of their family. If Gerard Argent showed up somewhere other than the Westerlands, it would seem to be as close as you could get to a declaration of war without making one. And the only person who liked Kate Argent was the King, and that was because she knew how to hunt, to carouse, and to do both at the same time.

Victoria’s life was busy yet fulfilling. As much as Gerard’s animosity and Katherine’s vulgarity got on her nerves, she had a wonderful husband and daughter. There wasn’t much about which she could complain, though sitting in this cave-like Northern castle might be one of them.

There was a knock on the door. Lady Victoria left off on her unfinished letter and placed a book on top of it so no one could see. She turned to face the door. “Enter.”

She stood immediately when she realized it was Robb Stark. Though the boy was actually younger than her daughter, he was now Lord of Winterfell, and she always insisted that etiquette be followed. Robb was on the cusp of manhood, wavering, almost as she watched, between a child in over his head and a man with a strong grasp of what must be done. 

“Lord Stark.” She curtsied as soon as she could step away from the chair.

“Lady Argent.” His voice carried the most serious of tones. Something had happened.

Behind him, the maester — she believed his name to be Luwin — stepped in after the young lord. Behind him, two men-at-arms waited in the hallway. Something indeed had happened.

“I would have come to you if you had summoned me, Lord Stark. I am your guest after all.” 

“I thought it would be better to have this conversation in private.” He gestured to the maester who closed the door behind them, leaving just the three of them in the chamber. 

Victoria clasped her hands in front of her, seeming to wait patiently. In truth, she was studying them for clues as to what was going on. There was tension in both men, the type of tension that was born from a healthy fear. Luwin seemed anxious yet weary, while Robb Stark looked like he had been fighting the urge to throw up for hours.

“Lady Argent …” Robb started but then stopped. He was going to change his tactics. “I know I should be more polite, but I have no desire tonight to play the games of court. Luwin, give her the ravens’ messages.”

She read them quickly, one after another. They became progressively worse. She looked up into the young lord’s eyes. “I cannot say that I am surprised that you needed to speak with me privately. May I ask how you responded to the Queen’s request?” 

“I have called the banners.”

Victoria inwardly sighed. This had just become terribly dangerous. “I see.”

Luwin stepped forward. “By law, Lady Argent, you owe fealty to House Glover and so to House Stark. Yet you also owe fealty to House Lannister. We recognize this puts you in a delicate position.”

“Indeed, it was one of the reasons I rode North, Maester Luwin. Had I been able to finish what I had intended, there would have been an established Lady of Beacon Hills, sworn to the lords of these lands. If a time, such as this, came when there was a question of allegiance, House Argent could have satisfied both claims to our fealty. I simply didn’t expect such a crisis to happen so quickly.”

“No one expected any of this to happen, Lady Argent,” said Robb Stark unhappily. “I will march on King’s Landing and free my father, so I need to know which fealty you intend to honor.”

“I understand. Yet you must know that my family will stand with the Lions.” She saw no point in lying. Her goal now was to secure her daughter’s safety. 

“Then I declare that you are my hostage.” Robb said firmly, while Luwin looked on approvingly. The boy knew when to listen to his elders, which was a good sign. “If you will give me your word that you won’t try to escape, you can remain in these quarters under light guard.”

“I would gladly do so, Lord Stark, under one condition. My daughter is still in Beacon Hills, I wish your word that she will be kept safe.”

Before Robb could answer, the maester cleared his throat. “You do not mention your sister-in-law.”

“I did not.” 

It looked like her answer wasn’t going to be sufficient for either of them, so she continued. “I have no idea why Lady Katherine rode with us, especially considering your father’s disdain for her. I do not know why I was not allowed to know why she was sent, and so I _will not_ tie my and my daughter’s safety to hers. If she’s not clever enough to flee at this news, then she takes her life into her own hands.” 

Robb nodded to show he understood, but he couldn’t hide the slight discomfort with her words. “It must be different for families where you come from, but I have to respect your words. And as your daughter Allison has done nothing against me and mine, I will give you my word. As long as she does not aid my enemies, I’ll protect your daughter as if she was sworn to me.”

“Thank you, my lord. You’ll need not worry about me, then. May this unfortunate business be concluded as quickly as possible.”

The young lord looked sad. “I would wish that as well, but I don’t think it’s very likely.”

**Malia**

Malia stood close to Boyd as she finally saw what he had tried to point out: the Beacon Hills lighthouse. It meant that they were close. And by the position of the moon, she thought it was well into the late hours of the night. Good timing.

“Keep us heading for the harbor. I’ll wake my father.”

Black Jenny raised her head as Malia got close to the sleeping man. The wolf had hated the entire long trip by boat. Whenever they stopped on the shore, it would be the first off and the last on. Several times, Peter had actually had to warg into the wolf to get it to come back. 

Malia knelt down by her father. She had only met him a few times, but he had offered her a place in his family, though he had insisted that she had to earn it. While others might believe that he owed her something, she had grown up in the Iron Islands. The ‘iron price’ was not that strange a concept to her.

“We’ve reached Beacon Hills.” 

Peter’s eyes snapped open. He must have been sleeping lightly, or he hadn’t been sleeping at all. Whatever the truth was, he became instantly awake. He searched out for the light, and she could see his body tense up when he recognized it. After all, this used to be his home. 

“Finally,” he breathed in anticipation. 

Malia helped him sit up. While the other wildlings were from the Frozen Shore and thus had spent a lot of time on the sea in their seal-skin boats, only Black Jenny had been less comfortable in the boat than Peter. But, according to Peter, the speed granted to them by the knarr was necessary. Every day made him anxious — the message he had received that his hated enemy was in his ancestral home gnawed at him and he pushed at everyone else.

The other wildlings had crept up to him. “You know what you’re supposed to do. I’ve promised a place for you and your families when the Hale lands belong to the Hales once again.”

Malia ran a hand through a hair. “Father …”

Peter raised both eyebrows. “I’ve explained this.” 

Malia nodded and stood up, slowly. This was the part she had grown to dislike. She worked her way back to where Boyd was steering the ship. 

“He wants us to get into the harbor?” 

“Yes. Without anyone seeing us.” 

“I can do that.” Boyd gave her a smile that she could see only because of the waning crescent moon. 

Malia had grown to like Boyd over the month that they had sailed together. He wasn’t like the Ironborn scum that she had also recruited. He was polite while they pawed at her and mocked her father and his men. He was steady when they were lazy or drunk. He had treated her like a person, when they had seldom let a night pass without trying to put their hands where they didn’t belong. Her father had watched, yet not interfered, most likely to see if she could take care of herself. Boyd had watched as well, but he had looked prepared to intervene if things got out of hand.

It made what she was about to do sting more than it should. 

The knar managed to pass, with the beacon’s help, into the inlet. The few lights on in Beacon Hills reflected off the water. It look like a quiet town. It wasn’t going to be quiet for much longer.

“Boyd,” she said heavily. 

The man was focused on steering the rudder of the ship. “Yes? Where do you want us to dock?”

“Stand up for a moment?”

Boyd’s face pulled up into a puzzled frown, but she did as he asked. 

She glanced over at her father, who nodded at her and turned away. He was overseeing things, with supreme confidence. Malia bridled at it. She wanted a name and she wanted a family, but this might be too high a price.

Malia leaned into Boyd and whispered urgently into his ear. “Whatever happens, don’t make a sound.” 

Peter took in a shallow breath, gazing at an area in the dark, high up one side of the inlet. “Now,” he said aloud.

Violence shattered the calm. The wildlings fell upon the Ironborn sailors with knives they had prepared. Throats were slit and blood ran. It was meant to be quick and quiet and fatal. Malia did not hesitate. She slashed Boyd along the back in a long cut, but it was shallow. If she had done it right, it wasn’t going to be fatal. Immediately, she pushed him overboard, the big man splashed into the water and disappearing from sight in the darkness.

“Haste makes waste, Malia,” chided Peter. “Make sure to make the bodies look like they were in a fight. Thus, when people try to find out what happened here …”

“They’ll think the Argents were killed by an Ironborn raiding party.” It would make sense. Only a few northerners would be able to tell that these Ironborn had never been on a raiding party in their life. One by one, they were deposited over the side, to be washed up on the beach. 

Malia smiled at him, but inwardly she felt a little angry. Treachery never set well with her. If Boyd didn’t make it to the shore, which was a good possibility, she’d have innocent blood on her hands. “I thought you wanted revenge no matter what.”

“I do want revenge.” Peter gestured for her take over steering the boat. “But after I get it, I want my lands back.” 

They had a long way to go before that happened, Malia knew. But she steered the boat anyway. This wasn’t the last blood she was going to spill tonight.


	11. Baelor (Part 1)

**Kate**

She was on the hunt. She relished the feeling rushing across her nerves, because this was when she felt the most alive.

Lady Katherine circled the edges of the crossroads, letting the signs of her prey left there filter through her years of experience. The road to Winterfell was swallowed by the trees to the east-southeast. The entirety of the Wolfswood which lay between this spot and the capital of the North. To the east-northeast lay a path that skirted the shore and ran to Deepwood Motte and the seat of House Glover.

The hoof prints, the spoor, the broken branches would have been clear to even an inexperience tracker. Her niece, her target, and their companions were headed towards Winterfell. They’d make use of the well-tended road to get reach Lady Victoria and Robb Stark. 

She cursed her father freely, but only because Gerard wasn’t anywhere nearby to hear her. If only she had persuaded him that Allison should know about their plans. But Gerard was sometimes far too clever for his own good. If it turned out that they wouldn’t have to kill the Hale bastard, the old man had insisted that his granddaughter be ignorant of their plan to do so. 

“Milady.” One of her men tried to get her attention. She almost laughed in his face at the false courtesy. This fucking sell sword would rape and kill her if he thought he could get away with it. But he knew he couldn’t. Even if he did manage to kill her, Gerard would burn the entire Wolfswood to find and torture the man who dared take something of his. “We should get moving. There’s seventy leagues from here to Winterfell.”

“Thank you.” She sneered at him. “I’ve never looked at a map of the North before, so I had no idea.” 

Kate hoped these prats were at least good at killing, though they were the source of her foul mood. Something was bothering her about the turn of events; she was missing something important. She didn’t understand why Allison would side against the family. Yes, there was bad blood between Katherine and her mother, but that had never before interfered with their relationship. Her niece wasn’t politically naive; she must have understood the significant of the King’s death and the danger the Hale bastard represented. Yet, Allison was siding against Katherine, and that didn’t make any sense.

It was possible that Allison had discovered Kate’s small and mostly harmless subterfuge, encouraging her innocent niece to indulge in her feelings for the stable boy while simultaneously urging her betrothed to become jealous. Had she misjudged both Allison and Jackson that badly? She thought it was a sure thing they would be far too embarrassed to share their stories.

Kate rejected that possibility. Allison would never share with Jackson the suggestion Kate had made, and Kate was certain Jackson’s pride would prevent him from acknowledging that it was only after Kate’s hints that he had seen the connection between him and the kennel boy. If they had learned about her trickery, someone else would have had to have the wits to see it and the nerve to tell them.

It occurred to her who was traveling with them. “Damn that squire,” she spat. It had to be him. Meddlesome rat.

She took a breath to steady herself. She was going to be patient like a good hunter, and she was going to think. If Allison had fled, she wanted to protect Jackson. Even then, Jackson would want to join the banners as they gathered at Winterfell. Lady Victoria was at Winterfell. The tracks she had found started down the road Winterfell. Why then was Kate hesitating to follow?

It was because she did know Allison. Allison possessed natural talent not only for the hunt but also the games her house played. Her niece would use her knowledge of Kate the same way Kate would use her knowledge of her. That meant she’d know that Winterfell would be the most logical destination, and that squire would no doubt agree. 

So they obviously wouldn’t take that route. 

Kate looked at the motley assembly of thugs that waited on her instructions. She could cover her bet. “You four. Ride for Winterfell.” They hesitated and so she shouted, “Now!”

As the four rode off, the others waited for her, nervously fingering their weapons. “If I’m wrong, you’ll get paid either way, so shut up and ride close behind me. We’ll be riding hard.” 

It was a risk, but it turned out to be a good one. They hadn’t gone another two miles before the tracks in the road towards Deepwood Motte showed four horsemen moving at a good pace. 

“Clever, Allison,” she said. “But not clever enough.” She'd ride right through Glover’s front door to do what she had to do.

**Stiles**

“You’re the only one of us that has been here before. Shouldn’t we be there by now?” complained Stiles as their third day of traveling began to draw to a close. It had to be close; he couldn’t be too far off in his calculations. The sun hadn’t set, but it was hiding behind the branches of the trees, watching their progress.

“If you don’t stop whining, squire,” Jackson snarled in exasperation, “I’m going to turn this fool’s errand around and we’ll ride back to Beacon Hills.”

“I’m not whining. I am simply saying that I’ve studied all the maps my father and Maester Alan have. We should be there by now. The road’s been clear; the weather’s been good. We’ve made good time.”

“We’ll get there when we get there. You should have brought a heavier blanket for sleeping on the ground; you wouldn’t be so stiff.” 

“Ser Jackson, that’s not true. That’s not why I’m concerned.”

Scott riding behind them, piped up. “It’s sort of true.”

The squire scowled at his friend for that betrayal. Yes, it was sort of true, but that’s not something that Scott should bring up in front of Ser Jackass. In front of them, Lady Allison may have though she hid her smile from him, but he had caught it out of the corner of her eye.

The lady didn’t mean anything by it, but it still stung. He hadn’t traveled far from Beacon Hills since he and his father had first moved there, and that had been well-nigh seven years ago. Stiles still vividly remember having moved with his father all the way from the Riverlands to Beacon Hills. He still dreamed about riding into the village for the first time, perched on the donkey’s load, trailing behind his father’s steed, watching a new world unfold with wide open eyes. 

That journey had been everything he had needed since his mother’s death. Without it, he probably would not be who he was. Even though who he was now ached for sleeping on the rough forest ground.

Now he was journeying again, but contrary to what Ser Jackson must have thought, he wasn’t complaining about being uncomfortable. He could sleep out under the stars as well as any of them, though he did wish he had brought a heavier blanket. He was worried about them — all of his companions.

Lady Katherine would come after them, he knew she had to, and while he also knew that Lady Allison and Ser Jackson were skilled riders and strong fighters, and that, unsurprisingly, Lady Allison knew more wood craft than all of the rest of them combined and, even more unsurprisingly, Scott was very skilled in keeping the horses and tack in good shape, they wouldn’t be going as fast as Lady Katherine and her men could. And as much as no one was going to say it openly, it was because Stiles was a terrible rider.

Not even Ser Jackson had said anything critical, but it was obvious if someone knew anything about horsemanship, which they all did. Stiles couldn’t focus on riding for as long as they could, and as a consequence, he couldn’t keep his horse going at their pace. The huntress would catch up with them if they had to keep riding, but they would be safe if they could receive Lord Glover’s protection. 

And to do that, they had to reach Deepwood Motte. 

He was about to wonder aloud again — he couldn’t help it — when they crested over a wooded hill. The trees of the Wolfswood stopped at the edge of this shallow valley, cut away by peasant’s axes. The vista revealed a clustered knot of fields which ended in the north on the muddy tidal flats of the Bay of Ice and in the south in a low rise of rocky hillocks. In almost the exact center of the valley stood the ancient fortress he was so desperate to reach. From those same rocky hills, blocks of stone had been carved and carefully, over centuries, used to build upon three low mounds of dirt — each one taller than the other. It commanded a view of the entire valley. Because this castle didn’t have something like the natural hot springs of Winterfell or the volcanic vents of the Dreadfort, each part of it had a set of fireplaces so large that three wagons could fit inside them easily. During Winter, Stiles had read, the smoke from those fires could be seen for miles, serving as a guide to weary travelers. Their heat was so important that Lord Glover’s seneschal had centuries ago been given the title of Ember-Stirrer, and his primary duty was to make sure that the castle had enough wood to keep all of its inhabitants warm.

Stiles visibly relaxed. Ser Jackson grumbled to himself and gestured with one gloved hand at the castle, as if Stiles couldn’t see it. 

The narrow road through the forest had been paved with timbers, but as it entered the valley, these planks changed to stone, smoothed by a million riders over a thousand years. As they rode past the fields, they saw workers busy with wagons stuffed with harvested oats and barley. All of this food would go into the protected silos for the long Winter to come.

Stiles’ elation at reaching the end of the trip was short lived. What made it die were the workers in the fields. They were very young. Or very old. Or women. Stiles looked and looked, but there were no men of fighting age among them. It made a certain amount of sense; the banners had been called, but he hadn’t expected it to change things so quickly.

“Do any of you see … soldiers?” 

At his question, the others started to look around for signs of mobilization, but, similar to Stiles, they could not see any armed men. There were absolutely going to be some guards left to defend the castle, but it wouldn’t be many.

Ser Jackson sighed. He had been hoping to join the banners here. “How could Lord Glover have left already?”

Allison studied these unfamiliar lands with pursed lips while stroking her horse’s mane. “Well … how far away is Winterfell?” 

“Three hundred miles,” Scott answered.

“I haven’t looked at the maps as much as you have, Stiles. Only five houses in the North swear fealty to Glover. Do they all lie south of here?”

Stiles nodded, suddenly understanding what she was getting at. He sighed. “He wouldn’t call the other houses and have them come here; he’d have them meet him at Winterfell. Why make them march all the way here and then turn around to march back south?”

“So he’s already gone?” Scott said plaintively. “But we were going to trust him to help protect Ser Jackson.”

Jackson narrowed his eyes. “To protect all of us, you meant to say.”

“Whatever.” Stiles had little patience for the knight’s pride. “Galbart Glover wouldn’t have emptied the Motte. He’d leave someone in charge. We go to them.”

Once they got to the front gates, Stiles’ supposition was confirmed: the castle was not without guardians. From how the guards were arrayed on the battlements, Stiles estimated that there would be about two hundred soldiers here. Maybe a twentieth of what Lord Glover could field. His father had taught him basic war craft, and he had studied more when he had the chance, so he was confident in his calculation. He wished his father was here so he could impress him. 

Or maybe, he just wished his father was here. 

They were stopped at the gate. Stiles could feel that the air inside the castle was abuzz with both interest and concern. War had come again, for the first time in nine years. Which meant that the four of them waited patiently on their horses as the guards sent a messenger to the highest mound and the great hall that stood upon it to inform whomever had been left in charge. It was a bit rude, Stiles thought, not to offer us the chance to water our horses or stretch our legs.

Finally, the gates opened and a soldier stood, obviously having run directly there. “Lady Glover bids you meet her at the Great Keep. We are to escort you.”

It was not a request. A group of guards formed up around them in their pointed helms and black shirts. These weren’t the dregs, either, but competent guards acting as if they were prepared against a threat, not protecting a set of refugees. Several of these guards kept a hand on their sword hilts. Stiles would have mocked them if he hadn’t been overly concerned by the cool welcome. 

Sybelle Glover met them in the narrow courtyard of the keep, standing at the top of a low flight of stairs, flanked by her house banners, a silver fist on red, hanging on the wall behind her. As befitted the sister-in-law of Lord Glover, she was not alone. Her maester was there — a rabbity little man who seemed cowed by her presence — with more soldiers between them. The soldiers stood at the ready, which added to Stiles anxiety.

Allison dismounted along with the rest of them and took a few steps forward. She curtsied as etiquette demanded, while the others bowed behind her as was proper. “Lady Glover, I am Allison of House Argent —”

“I know who you are.” The lady’s voice cut through the initial pleasantries. The years showed in the gray of her hair, she still looked strong and her voice was heavy with authority. “Why did you come here, Southerner?”

Stiles did not like that tone at all. The noble was being rude with no visible reason.

“I am a vassal of your house, Lady Glover,” Allison said without missing a beat. “And, as your vassal, I claim protection for me and my men: Ser Jackson Whittemore, Squire Stiles Stilinski, and my servant Scott.”

“You claim protection?” Lady Sybelle sounded like she did not believe it. “Protection from whom?”

“My aunt, Lady Katherine Argent, has been misled by events, and she might seek to do us violence.” Stiles had to admire Allison’s cleverness. It was the truth, and yet not the truth. It maintained her loyalty to her house and her desire to protect Jackson, yet without placing herself or anyone else into great danger.

Lady Sybelle’s turned to her maester, who whispered to her. Stiles couldn’t hear what was being said, but he could imagine the gist of it. “Hmmm. House Argent serves the false king and the Lannister queen. Why should I place my duty and my men in the way of a struggle between my enemies?”

“I am not your enemy, Lady Glover.”

“Do you renounce your house then?”

Allison shook her head. “I would never renounce my family.”

“Yet, your family does serve our enemies, the same bloody enemies that have Lord Stark in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep. If you’re not my enemy, you are close as you can be without drawing a sword.” Lady Sybelle lifted an eyebrow. “You’ll find no succor here.”

“My lady.” Jackson seemed surprised that the woman was rejecting them. “She’s to be my wife.”

“When she is your wife, when she bears your name, and swears fealty to my brother-in-law and Winterfell in the flesh, I’ll give her all the protection she desires. But you aren’t married yet, are you?”

Lady Allison straightened with the rebuke. “No, we’re not. I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Glover.”

“This isn’t fair!” Stiles exclaimed. He thought that this would be the clever play, riding to the Glover castle. “You don’t even understand —”

“No. And I do not wish to,” Lady Sybelle scowled. “War is dangerous for everyone, especially for those who do not know the battlefield. I’ve no interest in trying to sort through your house's tangled struggles, especially since I have no doubt you will lose your claim to the Hale lands, Argent. Better for my house that we stay clear of such threats. If you want my advice, Winterfell is more than a week’s hard ride. You should start quickly.” She turned to the men that had accompanied them. “Make sure they leave the keep.”

There was no appeal, as Lady Sybelle turned and entered her great hall, with her maester shutting the door behind her. By her posture, Lady Allison was offended. By his red face, Ser Jackson was furious. Scott was worried, because he looked at the three of them and kept pulling at the bridle of his horse. And Stiles? He was terrified.

Not that any of that mattered to the guards. As quickly as they had led them up, the guards led them out to the main gate of the keep and out into the road.

“It’s three hundred and fifty miles to Winterfell,” Stiles breathed. They were so much in trouble.

Scott looked up at him. “It only took us three days to get here; it’ll take us two weeks to get there. We can’t push the horses like we’ve been doing.”

“Two weeks?” Ser Jackson demanded. 

“No, Scott’s right,” Lady Allison frowned, and she looked back at the castle. “We don’t have the provisions and we don’t have the feed. We should have asked to have been able to purchase supplies here.”

The knight wasn’t mollified at all, and he pronounced the ruler’s name with a sneer. “ _Lady Sybelle_ did not seem interested in being fair. At least with you and … and Scott, we won’t starve on the journey. I cannot imagine what Lady Glover is thinking!”

“She’s thinking about her people.” Stiles broke his silence. “She’s loyal to Winterfell, as the Glovers have been for a thousand years. But, right now, what does that mean? With Eddard Stark, she would know exactly what that meant and what he would expect. But Robb Stark has never stood at the head of the table. Is he going to be fair? Or if he learned that Lady Sybelle had protected Allison, would he hold it against her and her family? To be honest, we know you, Lady Allison, and we trust you. To an outsider, it seems damn strange that you would side against your family.”

“I’m not siding against my family,” Allison said firmly. “My mother and father would never condone killing my betrothed —”

“Good to hear that,” Ser Jackson remarked drily.

Allison grimaced at him. “My family — the part of the family I belong to — would never do that. I will prove it to you one day.”

“You already have,” Scott answered. 

Ser Jackson turned on him. Scott shrugged.

Stiles decided to get between them. “Of course. We all know that if you were part of the plot, you would have had a dozen ways to slow us down. But you didn’t. So now that we know that we’re all on the same side, can we worry about what we’re going to do?”

“Shouldn’t we go to Winterfell?” Allison asked. “My mother and both of your fathers are there. It seems the safest place to be.”

Silence fell between the four of them. Finally, all three of them turned to him. Stiles had been getting ready to talk, but their gazes made him falter. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Scott gestured as if it should be obvious. “Because you seem to understand this stuff.”

“I don’t know the North,” Allison protested. “A Southern lord would never toss us out like Lady Glover did.”

“And I’m a pawn,” Jackson said petulantly. Stiles didn’t mind; if he had been in Jackson’s position, he would have been upset.

“First things first, my dad always says.” Stiles began. “What is our goal?”

Allison spoke, while looking at the knight. “To keep my aunt from killing Ser Jackson.”

“If our subterfuge worked, Kate will be in Winterfell before we will. She’ll be able to place her men on the road.”

Scott looked up. “The Stark men might arrest her.” 

“She’s not stupid, Scott. She’ll not get close enough for that. I don’t think we’ll be able to get to Winterfell without a fight.”

“That’s fine with me.” Jackson put his hand on the sword. Stiles struggled to keep the disdain off his face.

“That would defeat the entire purpose of us leaving Beacon Hills. And even if we get there, we don’t even know if Robb Stark and Galbart Glover will still be there. What if whoever is in charge of Winterfell thinks the same of Allison? They could imprison her or think her a spy. No offense.”

“None taken, Stiles.”

“What would they do with her?” Scott asked suddenly. 

“They’d most likely take her hostage,” Stiles concluded and Allison agreed with him. “It’s the Starks, so it wouldn’t be particularly heinous. Theon Greyjoy’s been a hostage for nine years, and he’s basically part of the family.”

“I’d rather not become part of their family.” said Allison. “I have my own, but I understand that war is war.”

“Or, we could take Ser Jackson somewhere where he would be safe.”

“I’ve consented to this, because you’ve made me see reason, but I’m a knight.” Jackson proclaimed hotly. “I’m not a craven. I should be at Winterfell.” 

“You want to protect your lady, though?” Scott asked and Jackson rounded on him. 

“If you do,” Stiles barreled along, “then going to Winterfell is too dangerous. We need to take you somewhere else where it is safe from Lady Katherine.” 

“And where would that be?” Jackson demanded in exasperation.

“Family,” Scott announced. He shrugged. “You’re a Hale. We take you to the last Lord Hale.” 

“The Shadow Tower is four-hundred and fifty miles away!” Stiles exclaimed. But even as he marshaled arguments against it he realized that it was the safest place to take both Ser Jackson and Lady Allison. The Night’s Watch swore to take no part in the wars of the seven kingdoms, which gave them no political reason to reject the Argent Lady. And Ser Jackson could expect at least a little help from his cousin, bastard or not.

“I always wanted to see the Wall,” Allison admitted.

“I should be riding to war!” Jackson said stoutly. 

“So should I,” Stiles added, “but the last thing Robb Stark needs is this type of … espionage. It’s not disloyal to do this. Once we get to the Tower, we can send ravens to Winterfell and seek advice.” 

It was a terrible plan. The only plans that were worse were every other one of which they could think. Lady Sybelle had made it clear she did not want them at Deepwood Motte. Going back to Beacon Hills without having more men was a death warrant for Ser Jackson. Going to one of the lesser castles was an unknown risk. Going to Winterfell was also dangerous and put Allison in danger. The Wall was far away, but it was far enough away to be safe.

As long as they got there in one piece.

**Erica**

In her bones, Erica could feel autumn approaching. She chuckled as she always did when thoughts like this occurred to her. They sounded like something that an elder would say. She tossed her head as she walked through the night-darkened streets of Beacon Hills and, on a whim, started to hobble in imitation of the elders she had actually met. “You make fun now but in winter …” She said aloud in a creaky voice.

She was being blithe, but she wasn’t being completely honest. She did feel old compared to the young couples she saw throughout the town. The cartwright’s son was getting married next week to the draper’s daughter; she had heard a couple of fisherman’s wives gossiping about it. You could overhear quite a bit when people were afraid of paying attention to you.

She had nothing against either the son or the daughter; her feelings of spite came from the idea of getting married. She would never know what that feel like. She would never have the septa of the Maiden lead her into the Sept and then the septa of the Mother lead her out. No young man would ever stand vigil in the grove of the Old Gods to prove himself worthy of her hand.

In the measure of things, it was no great wound. It would not hurt her much. Except when it did.

She had thought many times about Stiles Stilinski. He had come to her attention because, after all, he was his father’s squire. When some silly shop keep would complain about her presence near his storefront, they would make it to Ser Noah. He would have to come down, sometimes with his son, and very gently ask her not to loiter near this shop or that shop. Ser Noah was firm but he was always kind. Stiles would always stay by her then and distract her while she found a new place to be. He’d ask about her day or simply act as if they were friends.

At first, she believed that he was simply angry with people who would treat her like that. He didn’t really like her, he simply liked them less. But she could take what she could get. Slowly though, he came to talk to her, more and more. They would trade barbs or stories or gossip. 

“You don’t think I’m strange and annoying,” he had once said when she asked him why he talked to her. “I would like someone other than Scott to think that.”

She did think him strange, but she never though he was annoying. In fact, as time passed, she began to feel better when he was around. Sometimes, when he was talking about nothing and everything in her presence, he would relax and everything would become … wonderful. For a moment, she wasn’t the madwoman on the street corner, she was a girl to whom a boy was speaking. 

And then she’d dream that he was the cartwright’s son, and she was the draper’s daughter.

But they were dreams, and dreams didn’t come true. Not for people like her. She had watched Scott follow the young and beautiful Lady Argent around, and it was pathetic and touchingly sad. He could never be with her. His dreams wouldn’t come true either.

Always her thoughts ended like this, in the cold and the dark. That’s why she felt old. Her mother and father had insisted she come to dinner this night, and her mother had made her favorite food. But they had ruined the evening, when they had again tried to convince her to come home. They had almost pleaded with her. 

She understood why they wanted her home, but she couldn’t do it. Because as harsh and depressing as being the town madwoman was, she didn’t want to inflict her curse on her family. They had even said they would build a special room to hide her. 

Even people who loved you could be blind.

She didn’t want to hide. She didn’t want to pretend to be normal. She didn’t even want to be normal. It didn’t make sense. All the _normal_ people treated her either like garbage or like the plague. Only the strange people treated her well; only the heroes cared about her. So that’s what she wanted to be.

Tonight though, she wanted to find someplace a tiny bit warmer to sleep. She had her places, scattered around the town. She decided to go to the potter’s shop. It was down by the very edge of Low Woodside, where the beach gave way to clay and then to rocky outcroppings that girded the harbor until it became the bay. At the potter’s, the kiln had burned all day, and it would keep its heat until well into the night. 

She knew the city better than almost anyone, so she never carried a light. She didn’t need it. Yet, it was strange as she approached the potter’s home that she saw a boat gliding into the harbor. People usually didn’t risk coming into the harbor at night unless there was a full moon. The lunar disc was halved this evening, and clouds scuttled past it.

She shrugged and moved on when she heard faint shouts of fear and pain and numerous splashes as if heavy things fell into the water. By the light of the half moon, she crept toward the edge of the water. There was no way they could see her, but she could see them well enough to see one figure push another figure off the boat and into the water. 

It looked like that man had been killed. But that couldn’t be true!

She watched with horror as the ship sailed silently on. The ship would be in the heart of the city, and Erica had no idea what to do. Ser Noah was gone. If she called out for attention, she could gain it, but not the type of attention she wanted. She squatted there around the corner until the ship was out of sight farther down the harbor.

She still didn’t know what to do. She could run to the keep. She could run to the new Ladies. She could tell someone. But she didn’t know who to tell. 

While she was waiting there, she heard a splash out in the water. It was a sound similar to a large fish flopping in the night. She froze.

“Help me.” It was a small cry. Out in the harbor, a figure struggled, splashing, in the cold water. Someone was still alive. 

Sometimes the Gods, both the Old and the New, remained silent in the face of fervent prayers. And sometimes, they did not. 

Erica stood up. She was sick; she was touched; she would probably never get married, never have children, or never have a home of her own. 

But she was a great swimmer. 

She threw off her mantles, because they would just get in way, and she leap into the water. Before she became a burden her family, she would swim all the time. Her father would scold her for staying in the harbor for so long, but he would be smiling as he did so. He loved it when she was happy. She cut through the water with powerful strokes, pausing to listen again for another cry of help. Even in the water under the moonlight, she could navigate pretty well. Soon she saw a hand raised to the sky, a last grasp for salvation. It disappeared under the water.

She dived and found the body to whom the hand belonged. She could taste blood on her lips — she knew that flavor — which told her the man had been cut with a knife. She breached the surface and took a breath, and she was rewarded by a gasp as he did to. 

“Hold still. I’ve got you.” She kicked towards the closest part of the shore. It was much harder going, and she was starting to breathe heavily, but she could do this. She told herself she could. It didn’t matter if she was touched. 

They reached the shore, and she pulled him up to the shore. “There. Are you well?” 

He was a handsome man with skin as dark as the Maester Alan’s, which meant he came from far away. He looked up at her and the moon shone in his eyes. “I’ve been stabbed.”

Oh. “I’ll take care of that.” She ran and got one of her mantles to bind his wounds. “I’ll get you to help.” She would take him to Melissa, the midwife. She could help him, or she could go get the maester. 

“No. They can’t find me.” He said, full of fear.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let them.” Erica had no idea what she would do, but she had to promise that. “Do you trust me?”

The man looked up at her like she was some beautiful spirit come to save him. She blinked. He nodded his trust and relaxed in her arms, even as she shivered with the chill.

Yet, suddenly, she didn’t feel old.


	12. Baelor (Part 2)

**Alan**

The narrow bedroom was spare of decoration by design. Alan wouldn’t be entertaining anyone within this chamber, and while he frequently read into all hours of the night when the mood took him, all he needed to do that was a few good candles. The walls were lined with shelves, but they were nowhere near completely full. He had lost so many books when the Hale House had burned. So much knowledge, turned to ash to mix with the destruction of the family he had loved. Irreplaceable.

That was why Alan had to live; he had to see the scales righted. He simply wished that the wound in his stomach wasn’t so painful. He did not appreciate being rendered immobile while there was so much to do. 

Melissa looked over the wound with her practiced eye. “Maester, I think you’re going to survive. No sign of rot. No sign of further bleeding. With a few good weeks of rest — and I mean rest — you should make a complete recovery.”

“I’m glad. Thank you for all your help.”

The woman clucked her tongue. “You’re welcome, but I suggest that in the future you try to avoid getting stabbed.”

“I will most certainly try my best.”

Alan wouldn’t brave Melissa’s disdain by telling her that he had known that he would be stabbed. In fact, he had acted in such a way as to provoke violence from Lady Katherine. The goal had been to get her so irate that she would lash out rather than interrogate him effectively. Lady Allison had asked him for advice, and he had suggested that she ride away immediately not only to protect Ser Jackson but isolate her from the political repercussions of her aunt’s actions. He had approved of the squire’s plan to mislead Katherine into thinking they would ride directly for Winterfell. 

Provoking a dangerous woman had been a risk. With foresight, he had taken the time to wear a suit of padded armor under his robes, hoping that Lady Katherine’s irritation and the fact that she had spent so little time around him would keep her from noticing the armor, and it did. The padded armor would not stop the blade completely, and that was a key part of his plan because the lady had to be convinced that she had killed him.

There were a hundred ways it could have gone wrong, which was why he didn’t tell any of his allies about it before they rode away. He had barely managed to get the armor on before Lady Katherine had come to the keep seeking him. Even with the armor, she could have slit his throat, stabbed him in the eye, or stabbed him deep enough that he still could have perished. 

There was no question that if given the same circumstances, he would have done it again. To the detriment of all, there would always be people like Katherine Argent in the world who were willing to get what they want by using the bodies of those they had killed as stepping stones. It didn’t matter if they wanted fame or money or security or even purpose and it didn’t matter if they offended the lords or kings or gods, as long as they got what they wanted in the end, the number of dead did not matter. These people had to be stopped, and Alan had discovered that he was brave enough to stop them.

He guessed he had lived in the North too long.

“You should go home, Melissa. It’s late.”

“I will. Do you know when Scott will return?” 

“No, but when he does, I’ll let him know to come and see you first thing.”

Alan’s answer was the only one he could give her. The truth was that he hadn’t wanted Scott to go with the others, simply because this was plunging him even deeper into intrigue. The battle between nobles was no place for a commoner, especially one who secretly bore the sigil of ancient enemies. It was an old story: whenever the Great Game needed expendable pawns, it was always the Many who bore the brunt of the gambits. Yet, Scott was loyal to both his friend and the Lady Allison; he could not be dissuaded from going.

Melissa had finished packing up her items and made to leave when they heard the scream. Alan estimated it must have been from the courtyard. Immediately, the dark became far more frightening. Melissa clutched her bag to her chest, but when she saw him try to get up she put one hand on his shoulder. 

“Stay down. There’s nothing you can do in your condition.” She hissed. “Instead, we’ll be quiet.”

Alan felt like arguing with her; he wasn’t a warrior, and he didn’t know what was going on, but he had failed to protect one household. He couldn’t bear to do it again, but a single scream wasn’t a purge. He nodded, reluctantly.

Melissa blew the candle out, leaving them in darkness. 

As time crept by in the blank night, there were no more screams. Alan was about to suggest that they find out what was going on when they heard the door to his workroom burst open. 

“Maester? Where are you?” It was the voice of Peter Hale. 

Alan whispered fiercely. “Melissa get in that closet and don’t come out or say anything no matter what you hear. This man is dangerous, and I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Melissa hesitated for only a moment, but then she did as she was told. She always had an amazing amount of common sense.

“I’m in here, Peter.”

He hadn’t seen Peter since the days immediately after the burning of the Hale House. He had hired a boat to take them to safety, insisting he not know where they went. Now, the burn scars across Peter’s face made Alan’s eyes water. He had never been a friend to Peter. He found Talia’s brother to be a selfish, disrespectful ass who caused as many problems as he claimed to have solved. He had left a scattering of bastards across the North and had become unwelcome in more than one domain. But nothing he had done made him deserve the pain that Peter must have suffered from those burns and that terrible loss. The light from torch the man held high only whispered at the scars he must have across his body.

“What happened to you?”

“Katherine Argent tried to kill me.”

Rage flickered across the man’s face. “She does that. You’ll be happy to know I’m here to return the favor, but I can’t see to find the bitch or her family. Do you know where they are?”

Alan quickly explained the series of political events that set this in motion. “I called you here when I suspected that Lady Katherine was plotting something, but things in King’s Landing destabilized everything.”

“I journeyed here to kill the Argents, and now I find that you sent them away. I have to say that I’m significantly disappointed, maester.”

“I protected your son in the best way I knew how! If everything goes according to plan, he is beyond her reach.” 

“Irrelevant. I can always have more sons.”

Alan, as wounded as he was, couldn’t help himself. “Talia would be ashamed to hear you say that.”

“Talia is dead. She’ll never hear me say that. That bitch burned her alive.”

“What’s the point of your revenge if you destroy everything else?”

Peter used the torch to light the candles that had just been blown out. Peter didn’t seem to notice that detail. He pulled up the stool and sat next to Alan. “I want you to understand something, maester.”

Alan watched him carefully. He wasn’t sure where this was going, but he felt in danger once again.

“You ask if I am willing to destroy everything else? There is nothing else for me to destroy. There is only revenge, my revenge, my need to share my suffering with the family who caused it. The fire that destroyed my ancestral home burned all compassion out of me. Years of begging for scraps from wildlings drained all dignity from me. Watching my nieces work like animals to care for me while I slowly healed, while I learned how to move again, tore all honor from me. There is nothing for me beyond the blood of those who have wronged me.”

“And the future?”

“The future belongs to my children. Those that survive, of course.”

Alan had completely misunderstood the depth of Peter’s madness, if the words he was saying were spoke true. The fury in Peter’s eyes did nothing to say he hadn’t. Alan should never have worked with him, but maybe Peter could still be useful. 

“Then I must advise you to be patient”

“Patience? I have sailed from the Frozen Shore —”

“It matters not. If you ride hard, you could perhaps catch Lady Katherine. But the whole land is mobilized for the march on King’s Landing. If she’s not caught by the armies of Robb Stark, how will you get to her?”

“She may evade capture; the Wolfswood is enormous.”

“You don’t need to find her. She needs to find your son, and if she doesn’t, then she’ll come back here. Once your son reaches safety, Lady Allison will inform me. Then, if she has not returned, you can go to him, and when she does return, I’ll arrange for her to find out where he is. Either way, any way this plays out, she’ll come to you.”

The madman’s mouth thinned out into a straight line as he weighted that advice. Alan relaxed; if Peter could still set aside his rage to calculate the odds, he wasn’t going to lash out. 

“It’s a good plan.”

“There are no knights here to search for you, and if they do come back, they’ll be busy mustering troops for Robb Stark’s war.”

Peter Hale nodded once and then once more. He stood up. “You need to get better, maester. After I’m done, you will be needed to make sure my son has a good advisor.” He left the room with no further words.

Alan waited with the candles burning. When he was confident, he called out. “You can come out now.”

“Who was that? What have you gotten my son into?”

“That man is Peter Hale, Lady Talia’s brother. I don’t know if you met him when you came here with Rafael.”

Melissa frowned. “I did. I thought … tell me everything.”

**Scott**

Scott smiled to himself as he got off his knees. Tonight’s fire had started to burn, finally. Considering the misty rain that had rolled in off the Bay of Ice all day, it was a miracle he could get the wet scrub wood to catch.

They weren’t in the Wolfswood any longer. They had left the ancient stands of fir trees that made up the northern part of that forest behind two days ago and now were deep into the Northern Mountains. They kept close to the shore. While they weren’t unskilled between the four of them, none of them had ever been in this range, and they didn’t want to get lost. The Bay of Ice, still cool in the midst of Summer, would guide them as far as they needed to go.

While Scott had built a fire, the rest of them had arranged the camp as best they could on the sodden rise they had come across. He’d check over the horses after dinner, he decided. He wanted to dry out a little first. None of the others treated their mounts badly, but all three of his companions were used to someone else — in Ser Jackson’s and Stiles’ case, it would have been him anyway — keeping an eye on the long-term health of the horses. He didn’t mind doing it; it made him feel useful.

Stiles had found a stream nearby, had drawn water, and set the pot on the fire. He would make a simple stew, for they planned to be very careful with the provisions they had. They were presently, according to Stiles’ recollection, on the lands of Lord Harclay, and the mountain clans were concentrated in a few settlements. They could not hope to run into more than a few in this wilderness if they insisted on keeping close to the sea.

Still, food wasn’t a problem, yet. Allison kept an eye out during their ride for birds and small game animals, and she was an excellent shot. Ser Jackson had cajoled a farmer into selling them dried vegetables for a good price. Still, they rationed carefully. The closer they got to the Gift, the lands of the Night’s Watch, the less sure they could be that they would find food.

Scott settled down on his bedroll, watching the others as they tried to shake off the burden of the trail. Even for experienced riders, spending most of the day on a horse could lead to aches and pains. Stiles was the worst off, but he kept his mind elsewhere by focusing on dinner. They were all miserable, soaked to the bone.

Ser Jackson was trying to straighten his clothing, without comment. He had put away his armor, wrapping it and storing it in his saddle bags. He looked more like a commoner. The change made Scott realize how much time the knight had put into his appearance before this trip. Jackson took his position and status seriously, and he had growing more silent and sullen the farther north they went.

Lady Allison did not show how she must feel on her face, and she might have been more at home than any of them. Granted, Scott hadn’t spent much time among the upper class, but she was comfortable in the wilderness then he or Stiles. She didn’t mind getting dirty and she didn’t mind helping out. He assumed that wouldn’t be true of all noble women.

Stiles was less than cheerful. This hadn’t been Stiles’ idea, and usually following someone’s idea other than his own put him in a foul mood. He had kept up a steady commentary with almost no inflection all day. Scott wondered if Stiles was disguising his own fears about his father’s safety; they had no way of knowing what was happening at Winterfell.

“At this rate, we’ll be at the Shadow Tower in ten days.” Stiles had figured out from drawing in the mud. 

“We could push ourselves harder if we wanted,” Ser Jackson suggested. 

Scott spoke up. “These are good horses, but they’re not used to traveling these distances. We go any farther and we’ll start seeing injuries.”

“We’ll keep this pace,” decided Allison. “There’s a chance my aunt will figure out where we’re going, but it’s not a large chance. Even if she figures it out, we have a half-day’s ride on her. I’d rather be steady than quick, especially in this weather.”

Lady Allison looked up at all of them, watching to see their reactions. Scott decided she would make a good lady. She listened to others before she made her decision, but they were her decisions in the end. That didn’t mean she didn’t care about her decisions affected others, but she did what she thought was right without trying to curry favor.

Scott decided it was bad luck that this war had screwed up Lady Victoria’s plans. His hand went to the scar on his side. Contrary to their claims of vengeance or their right to the land, he had no loyalty to the living Hales. The one called Peter had tried to enslave him, and Ser Jackson had come close to killing him due to jealousy. The Argents might be ruthless and from the south, but they had given no indication they would be bad rulers. Lady Katherine was obviously a murderer, but Lady Allison was nothing like her. 

“What do you think will happen?” He asked cautiously.

“What will happen when?” Stiles was erasing his calculations. 

“When we reach the Shadow Tower. We’re trusting that Lord Hale will be able to protect us. But we also thought that Lord Glover would protect us.”

“Lady Glover was afraid of involving her house in a struggle that meant nothing to her,” Allison pointed out. “If she sheltered us, she could be considered declaring against House Argent. But by law, Lord Hale is just Derek Hale. Men of the Night’s Watch have no titles. The details of what that means I don’t know. All I heard was he must have joined the watch out of shame when the fire happened.”

“Knowing what we know now, that makes no sense,” Stiles frowned as he poked at the stew he was making. “If he was ruthless enough to burn his family alive to become Lord Hale and ally with the Argents, why would he suddenly renounce his title before being brought to trial?”

“A guilty conscience?” Scott watched Allison out of the corner of his eye. While Ser Jackson’s jealously had been unfair, for Scott and the lady had never done anything inappropriate, Scott had had thoughts beyond his station. He just hadn’t acted on them, and he was torn between regret and relief and not a little guilt. 

“Maybe he was afraid of getting caught. Maybe he was afraid of being revealed as someone who would murder their own family.” Ser Jackson suggested sourly, poking at the fire with a branch. 

“None of you need conceal what you feel from me.” Allison jaw set as she stood up; she was irritated. “I think it is pretty clear that my aunt, once married to Derek Hale, destroyed the rest of his family so their lands would fall to my house, to be ruled through her. Since Lord Stark saw through the subterfuge and blocked it, my marriage to Jackson was intended to come to the same result through a different path. I won’t think badly of you, ser knight, if you refuse my hand now; my family has wronged your family.”

Stiles looked over at Scott, and he shrugged in response. Allison and Jackson had talked around their betrothal ever since they had left Beacon Hills. Ser Jackson had been too focused on his dislike of ignoring Robb Stark’s summons, and Lady Allison had been shocked by her discovery of her aunt’s mission. Any talk of weddings had been avoided.

Allison addressed this directly to the knight, but her eyes slid to Stiles, who was looking at any place but the pair of them, and to Scott. He hoped she was looking at him for support, so he tried to smile encouragingly. “Our marriage was proposed in deceit. If we were to honor all our vows, we would end up on different sides of this war.”

Ser Jackson looked up at her. His voice was tired. “Why … why don’t you sit down?”

“Sit down?” Allison looked shocked. 

“Sit down. I’m not ready to talk about this. It’s not been a week since I discovered that my parents aren’t really my parents and that I’m actually a Snow.” He poked the fire again, this time a little harder. “The three of you did what you thought was best to save my life. I appreciate that, but I would also appreciate it if you give me a little more time to think about this.”

“Oh.” Allison blushed and then sat down. “I thought … never mind.”

Stiles started dishing out stew. It wasn’t the best stew anyone had ever had, but in the middle of the mountains under a small fire, it was the best they could get. The four of them ate in silence as the evening light began to die. 

Stiles was the one who broke the silence. “And what do you want?”

“Who are you talking to?” Scott asked. 

“I’m talking to my lady. What do you want to happen?”

Allison looked up at Stiles, but her eyes quickly shifted around to encompass all of them. “I … I am not sure. I guess that I always knew what my family needed to be, so I never struggled against it. It simply didn’t occur to me that I didn’t have to be what they needed, so all I ever wanted was to be the best at what I had to do.”

She hummed and stared down at her stew. The rest of them ate in silence. Scott fought the urge to reach out a hand and comfort her. Doing so would cause more trouble than it was worth.

Finally, she spoke again. “I think I do want to be Lady of Beacon Hills, if that’s even possible anymore. I like the people there. I like the village. I think I’d be a good ruler. I’d try at least.”

Stiles shrugged at the decision. “I don’t know … I don’t know if that’s possible.”

Jackson looked up at her and then back down at his stew. He still wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“What do you want, Stiles?” Allison asked. 

“I’d like it not to rain for the rest of the trip.”

Scott laughed out loud, while Allison scowled good-naturedly. 

“Seriously, Stiles.”

Stiles sobered up. “I’d like to be knighted. I know, I know, I’m terrible at it, but … I think my father would be proud.”

Scott shook his head. “Stiles, you know your father is proud of you.”

“He loves me,” Stiles protested sadly, “but he’s not proud of me. I should have been knighted by now. I’ve trained and trained, but …”

Ser Jackson said nothing, Scott noticed. He remembered what Jackson had said about Stiles before. It was actually nice of the knight say nothing in this instance.

“You should be knighted.” Lady Allison nodded to herself. 

Stiles looked up. “But I …”

“You may not be a great swordsman or a great rider or …” Allison trailed off. She was trying to praise Stiles, not remind him of things he didn’t do very well. “Those are all important things, but the most important thing a knight does is serve his lord and serve the realm. You’re the one who figured out what my aunt was up to. Without your intervention, terrible things could have happened.”

Scott could tell that Stiles’ pleasure at the compliment was real, but Stiles being Stiles, he couldn’t accept it. “If I’m to be knighted for that, so should Scott.”

“No!” Scott exclaimed. “I don’t want to be a knight.”

All three of his companions looked at him.

“I don’t. Knights have to fight in wars.”

“You’re not craven, Scott,” Jackson reprimanded him. “You didn’t have to come with us, yet you put your life in danger when you rode out the gates of the keep. And when I threatened you in the forest, you stood up to me. People who are afraid of fighting don’t do the things you did.”

“I’m not afraid of fighting. I’ll fight if I have to, but I don’t want it to be … my duty. You asked me what I want, and the only thing I can answer is that I want to go home when we can do it safely. They may not write stories about it, but I think it’s a good life to take care of the dogs, the horses, and other animals. Maybe, one day I’ll be good enough to help Maester Alan and my mother when people need healing.”

“I think that’s a good thing to want.” Allison smiled. He couldn’t help it, he blushed.

“Thank you, milady.”

Talk shifted to other things for the rest of the night. They talked more of Beacon Hills. Scott and Stiles told Allison of the things they had gotten up to when they were younger, and Jackson even added a few stories of his own. In return, Allison told them of her youth in the Westerlands, and how it was different. She also spoke of her friend, Lydia. 

It did help take the edge of the rain that still crept in from the coast.

**Noah**

A dull roar echoed through the main courtyard of Winterfell. Noah recognized that sound; he had been a knight during the years of the Greyjoy Rebellion and Robert’s Rebellion before that. The echo was the unmistakable cacophony of an army on the move. It was the advent of war.

Like all real soldiers, he shuddered at the very thought of it.

He was not going to be marching with the soldiers this time, but he would probably be doing so very soon. Another war. More young men dying in the fields, crying for their mothers as scavengers stole their shoes. It could soon very well be him. It could soon very well be Stiles. 

He wished he could resent it, but he couldn’t. It was the way the world worked; the way the world had always worked. Knights possessed power and authority only because when war came, they would be called upon to fight it. You take up the sword, and you take up the responsibilities that come with it.

Noah glanced at Ser David, standing next to him. While he had worked with him for nearly eight years, the man was suddenly hard to read, yet Noah didn’t think it was any attempt at subterfuge. Whittemore’s precisely constructed life had fallen apart in little under a week -- none of it was by his hand. His liege was attainted, his son’s marriage was in jeopardy, and he was probably worried about the war and its consequences as much as Noah was. 

Noah’s attention was drawn back to where Robb Stark and Gelbart Glover crossed the courtyard. He had expected this; a page had asked them to come to this spot and wait. The Lord of Winterfell eyed with a solemn urgency the horses waiting for both of them by the gate. This must be the last bit of business before he set off for King’s Landing. Noah saw the echo of his father in the new leader. 

“Ser Noah Stilinski and Ser David Whittemore.” He addressed them formally, looking them both in the eyes. Noah inclined his head in respect. In other lands he would have bowed, but the people on this side of the Neck did not demand such things of other men. 

“Are you sons of the North?” Gelbart Glover demanded suddenly. 

Ser David startled at the tone in Lord Glover’s question, and he gaped a little in surprise. Noah divined the intent, but he wasn’t going to be scolded for doing what he thought was best. “Beacon Hills is my home, no matter who rules as its lord.”

“What Lord Glover’s trying to say is that we all know that we’ve entered dire times.” Robb’s voice was firm, but he wasn’t as confrontational as the other man. “We need to be sure where your loyalties lie.”

Noah shrugged. “I have no complaint against the ladies of House Argent, but it’s been but a moon since I met them. As I said, my loyalty is to Beacon Hills. If they’re the rulers of it, then they have my obedience, as they should obey Lord Glover, who obeys you. Thus, by my word, I am loyal to House Stark.”

Ser David nodded in agreement, even if he couldn’t find his voice. 

“That’s good.” The eldest Stark son moved on as if Noah’s word was all he needed. “Lady Victoria remains within our custody. She has promised her good behavior, and I have no reason to think she’ll renege on that promise. When you two return to Beacon Hills, if the Lady Allison and Lady Katherine are still there, you will have them escorted here. Assure them that as long as they cause no trouble they will be treated as all noble hostages should be treated.”

Ser David nodded. “It will be done, my lord.”

“And then,” ordered Lord Glover, “you will mobilize four hundred men for the war in the South.”

“Four hundred will require every fighting man that Beacon Hills and the surrounding lands could provide.” Ser Noah pointed out. He was not objecting, but it seemed odd to strip a fiefdom of all its soldiers, even in time of war. 

“That it will.” Lord Glover said darkly.

It took Noah a moment to fathom the strategy behind it. If the other Argents were unable to be found — or worse, they were actively avoiding being found — removing all possible soldiers from the area would minimize the potential damage that the ladies could do if they put their minds to it. 

“We’ll send a raven ahead. We’ll be back within the fortnight, my lords.”

Robb Stark shook his head. “I can’t wait that long; I march today. When ready, your forces will head directly south and reinforce the garrison at Moat Cailin. Ser Noah, you’ve been there.”

“I have.” It would take a month for the men of Beacon Hills to reach Moat Cailin, and the other houses of the North had already been preparing for days. 

“My lords,” Ser David ventured. “Who shall rule in Beacon Hills for now? I would prefer not to be left behind.” 

Robb Stark wasn’t completely green, and he must have been well-trained by his father, for he saw the problem immediately. With the Argents held as hostage and Ser David and Ser Noah at war, there would be no authority in the former Hale lands. Most castles had stewards, like Ser David had been the Argent’s, and while maesters could advise, they could not rule. “Name someone we can trust to oversee the lands during this time. When my father returns, he’ll settle the matter of the succession, once and for all.” 

Lord Glover looked very pleased by the Young Wolf’s suggestion. “I’ll send a writ naming this person to hold the place in my name.”

Ser David had worked well with him, but he hadn’t been someone that Noah considered a friend. The Argent’s steward had always had one eye on the next step up the ladder, but what he said next surprised him. “Your son and squire, Ser Noah, would be the best choice. You’ve trained him in the laws, he’s known to the people, and he’s known to speak with your voice from time to time.”

“He’s a man now, but he’s just turned sixteen.” Noah tried to protest, but he bit his tongue. Robb Stark was only two years older. “He’s … just a squire.” 

“Your son would do us much better at home. Ser Noah, I’ve seen he’s not much of a soldier, but he has a sharp mind, and he knows the lands as well as anyone.”

Robb Stark was not offended by the slight about age. “We all have duties that we must perform. While I’m gone, Bran will be Lord of Winterfell, and he’s barely recovered from his injuries. Do you agree with Ser David’s words about your son?”

“I do.” 

“Then he’ll do. Lord Glover, send the writ as soon as you can, but I’ve no more time to spend here. I’ll not let my father rot in those dungeons a day longer than I have to.”


	13. Baelor (Part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Teen Wolf or Game of Thrones. This works is intended as homage and for enjoyment purposes only.

**Stiles**

Stiles spotted it before any the rest of them, but that wasn’t because he was more aware of his surroundings or because he had better eyesight. He had carefully estimated how far through the Northern Mountains they had ridden and made a rough calculation of when it would appear. He hadn’t warned anyone else. Call him childish, but he wanted to see the surprise on his companions’ faces.

And they would be surprised, because Stiles was surprised and he had been expecting it. The Wall was described in the books he had borrowed and he had listened to travelers’ tales about it, but reading descriptions and hearing stories couldn’t compare to the actual presence of the massive edifice. People simply had to see it with their own eyes. Only then could they believe in the majesty of the fortification: a rampart of ice which stood 700 feet tall and stretched for nearly 100 leagues from one ocean to another.

Stiles studied the grayish-blue blur on the horizon as well as he could from this distance. It stood as the greatest construction that humankind had ever built or would likely ever build. For eight thousand years, the work of the First Men had divided a continent. According to some of the histories he had read — and Stiles figured they were less histories and more compilations of legends — the Wall had been raised with the help of ancient and lost magic. Stiles was not a believer in magic; he was a believer in humankind. If he read that ten thousand people had carved ice from the glaciers of the Frostfangs for _centuries_ and then raised them, block by block, into position, he would more likely believe that than the idea that some old graybeard had waved his arms and the Wall had sprung into being.

On the other hand, it was still a wonder of the world, and he was seeing it with his own eyes. By magic or hard work, it existed and he would soon be close enough to touch it. Stiles’ pulse raced as the reality of the situation began to set in. 

He wagered with himself that Lady Allison would be the first to notice of his companions. She had traveled the most of any of them, and her training as a huntress included keeping an eye on her surroundings. When next she checked the horizon, she wouldn’t fail to see the strange discoloration there, and her sharp mind would draw the right conclusion. 

Ser Jackson would be the next to notice it, if Lady Allison said nothing. While Stiles had to admit that during their weeks-long journey he had learned more about his rival than he ever had before and that the man wasn’t a completely selfish dolt, Jackson was still far more inwardly focused than either Stiles or Lady Allison. Stiles would have liked nothing more but to consider Ser Jackson an arrogant horse’s ass, blind to everything but his own ambitions, but he couldn’t say that anymore. Ser Jackson simply functioned as his own worst enemy. The knight mad everything that happened about his own perceived inadequacies, and Ser Jackson had to carry himself as a superior person in order to prevent anyone else from seeing them. At a certain level, Stiles understood this; he had his own inner demons with which to grapple.

Scott would be the last to notice if no one else said anything. His friend would pretty much ride his horse directly into the Wall if he had no reason to look up. It wasn’t that Scott was dull or really all that oblivious. Scott simply didn’t care about the Wall, just as he didn’t care about King’s Landing or the Great Game, or the pirates that plied the waters between the Seven Kingdoms and Essos. He cared about his family, his friends, his mentors and even his acquaintances. He cared about his village. He cared about the animals under his care. It wasn’t negligence or ignorance; it was an expression of Scott’s priorities.

In a way, that’s why they had become such deep friends. When they had been children, they had shared the same hope for wild adventures far away from Beacon Hills, but as they had grown into men, Scott had come to value what was right in front of him, while Stiles always worried about what they might miss out on tomorrow. Honestly, Stiles saw it as a mutually beneficial arrangement: Scott kept Stiles from forgetting the important things such as home and hearth, and Stiles kept Scott from becoming dull.

Stiles heard Allison draw in her breath sharply. “By the Seven! Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes.” Stiles beamed at her. He had been right.

The other two men followed her gaze to the horizon. Ser Jackson whistled in appreciation, while Scott scrunched up his face in concern. 

“Do you see that dark smudge on the ice, right … there?” Stiles pointed at that location for all of them to see. “That’s our destination. The Shadow Tower.” 

“Why do they call it that?” Scott wondered out loud. 

“Well, look at it; it’s a dark area among the white ice. They built the fortress on a natural monolith of black rock that stood long before the wall was made; it juts up against the ice. From the other side, it makes that part of the Wall ice look dark and menacing, as if a shadow had fallen upon it.” 

Ser Jackson sighed. “I don’t care what it’s made from as long as it has a bed and a stable and fireplaces. I mean it’s still damn Summer, but I’ve never felt this cramped and chilled in my life.”

It took nearly three hours to reach the fortress itself, and as they approached it got more and more impressive. Spiraling around the black stone column was a wide walkway that worked its way up to the top of the monolith, passing through barracks, armories, mess halls, and other necessary buildings until it reached the summit six hundred or so feet above the ground. There, a bridge extended from between the Great Hall and the Rookery to the Wall itself. Three large stairs spread out from that bridge to allow the watch to get to walkways on top of the Wall. 

Surrounding the base of the spire was a gated wooden palisade about fifteen feet high. It would only slow a dedicated army attacking from the south, but it would certainly stopped wildling raiding parties that slithered up through the Gorge. Gathered outside the front gate was a knot of three buildings. One was a dilapidated sept, one might have once been an inn, and the last was a ramshackle stable. All of them, during times when the Tower was fully manned, must have served visitors, but they were long abandoned. The Night’s Watch kept the few horses they owned inside the palisade.

The four of them rode openly to the front gate; it was closed, but that wasn’t surprising. This place was in the deep wilderness, even compared to the other castles. The Tower was still manned; over the wooden fence, they could see men walk the spiral walkway across the higher elevations. Some of them were even staring down at Stiles and his friends. But these men made no move to come to them, even after they had shouted their name and their intentions. 

“Well … fuck.” Stiles didn’t know what to do. This was the second time they had been turned away. Doubt gnawed at him; he had agreed with Scott’s idea to bring Jackson here — had that been a mistake? 

“They weren’t expecting us,” Scott argued. “They probably aren’t sure what to make of four riders at their gates. We should give them time.”

Ser Jackson nodded. “Yeah. It’s not like they get visitors in this Gods-forsaken part of the world. Most messengers and all recruits go to Castle Black first.”

Lady Allison was staring at the inn. “At least we’ll have a roof tonight. Sooner or later, someone will come to us to find out why we’re here.”

Strangely enough, the abandoned inn seemed weirdly inviting. There were still a few rickety chairs and dusty tables that hadn’t been turned into firewood and the roof was mostly sound, even if there was a family of owls in the rafters above the fireplace and ample evidence that other furry creatures had used this place as shelter. Jackson and Allison explored the place, while Stiles volunteered to start a fire. They would need it. This close to the Wall, gusts of cold wind were nearly constant, and even as Stiles caught the wood on fire with his flint, he witnessed a brief Summer snow start to drift down outside one of the broken windows.

Scott was in the building next door, seeing the horses stabled. That building was in much better shape than the inn, most likely because the building would be more likely to be used by the Night’s Watch in times of need. It’d be nice, at least, not to have to worry about the horses.

Stiles managed to get the fire going in the crumbling fireplace and soon the place seemed almost cozy. Night fell quickly between the mountains and the Wall, so they bent over their bowls in the gloom. It was the same food that they had ate on the road, but it seemed so much better since they were now sitting on actual chairs at an actual table in front of a real hearth.

This pleasant dinner was interrupted by the inn door being flung open. Ser Jackson had tried to secure it, but the lock had long since rusted away so he had given up. Stiles and the others scrambled up out of his chairs, though only Ser Jackson had his weapons nearby. 

At the head of a group of Brothers of the Night’s Watch, the most impressive man Stiles had ever seen stood with his fists clenched at his sides. He possessed piercing gray-green eyes, a powerful jaw, and the weight of authority settled on his brow. Stiles blinked twice, even as the man looked at the four of them as if they had each personally offended him.

“This is private property.”

Stiles spoke before anyone, though he should have technically allowed Lady Allison the privilege. “Look, it’s obviously been abandoned, and we have come a long way searching for refuge. Someone must have told you that we went to the tower first.”

The leader of the men frowned. Maybe he expected them to vanish when he spoke his displeasure. “You were seen,” he finally said. 

“I am Stiles Stilinski, Squire of Ser Noah. This is Ser Jackson Whittemore. This is Lady Allison.” Stiles left her house name off on instinct. “This is our friend Scott McCall. We hail from Beacon Hills.”

“Why would that be of any interest to me?”

Lady Allison cleared her throat. “We’re looking for Lord Derek Hale. We have important news for him.”

The man seemed even more overtly offended than ever before. “I am Derek Hale. I am Chief Steward of the Shadow Tower. Does this news have anything to do with the Night’s Watch?”

Lady Allison shook her head. “No, but it —”

“Then you can clear out in the morning.” Derek turned around and left the building, leaving the four of them looking at each other in stunned silence. 

Stiles suddenly stormed out into the snow after him. “Now, look here!”

The four watchmen that had accompanied Derek turned with hands on the handle of their swords. Derek had not, leaving his back turned. Stiles swallowed at the display but went on anyway. 

“We’ve come a long way to talk to you. The least you could do is listen to what we have to tell you!” 

The Chief Steward turned around slowly until he was looking Stiles straight in the eye. His eyes were troubled while remaining firm in their resolve. “When you take the Black, you renounce all claims to title, land, and … family. If what you wish to discuss has nothing to do with the Night’s Watch, then what you want to talk about is from my life before and that has no meaning to me.”

Stiles knew that already. It’s why nobles like Derek would join the Night’s Watch — to shed what had become an unwanted life or to avoid the otherwise unavoidable consequences of that life. It was finding a new home when the old one no longer fit. 

“You may lay no claim to that life, but it has claim to you. Your oath is meant to let nothing keep you from your duty, but it doesn’t mean that you’ve no obligations to anyone else.”

“Doesn’t it?” Derek Hale lifted one eyebrow.

Stiles ground his teeth. “No. It doesn’t. If you won’t speak with us, if you won’t hear what we have to say, at least let us make use of your ravens.”

“Why would we?”

Stiles rubbed at his face in frustration, but then he remembered that he had read once the oath that all Night’s Watch took. “Because you’re the shield that guards the realms of men, we're men, and we need _guarded_ right now.”

Derek Hale hooded his eyes, studying him closely. Did he think Stiles was being insincere? Did he think he was being tricked? 

“You don’t have to leave.” The Steward turned once more and headed toward the palisade gate, his men trailing after. The conversation was over.

**Kate**

Katherine Argent never underestimated the greed of men. Next to lust, it was her greatest ally. Men were stupid; as long as you gave them a way to conceal their darker impulses, even from themselves, you could get them to do almost anything for you.

Take the man standing before her right now. He was an old man; too old to march with Lord Glover to war. Instead, he helped the maester of Deepwood Motte, a man even older than him, take care of his ravens. Katherine had seen an opportunity within a day of her arrival at the seat of the Glovers. She had paid the man a little silver, and she had promised him more if he could intercept any message that talked about Ser Jackson Whittemore or Lady Allison Argent.

Her faith in men’s greed had never failed her, for she was now looking down at the scroll in her hand. The old man, whose name she could not be bothered to remember, had brought it to her first. She glanced up at him with his crooked nose and eager, watery eyes. 

“When did this arrive?”

“This morning, milady.” 

“And I’m the first to see it?”

“Yes, milady. You promised me more silver if I brought it to you first.”

“And you shall have it.”

She glanced at the four sellswords that were in the room with her. This whole endeavor was getting expensive, but she really didn’t mind spending the family’s wealth. If Father wanted it done, he could very well pay for it. She went to her bag and drew out a pouch of silver. 

What she did mind is the length of time. Every moment she spent in the north she was in danger of losing her freedom if not her head if the Starks captured her. She needed to kill that bastard and get the hell out of here.

The scroll’s story told her it wasn’t going to be easy. They had fled to the Shadow Tower, far to the north, to the supposed safety of her husband. She chuckled out loud.

“He couldn’t save anyone the first time, why do they think he’d save them now?” 

“Milady?” The old man was waiting with ever-growing impatience for his payment. 

Kate sauntered over to him. “Here’s your silver, as I vowed. When I held the message in my hands, you would hold the silver in yours.”

“Thank you.” The bag must have been more money than he had ever seen in his life. Lady Katherine always made sure her men were well paid; lest apt to be betrayed. “I’ll take the message back.”

“Oh, no.” 

“Milady?”

“I’m afraid I can’t have anyone in the Motte know about this message. I need time.” Katherine nodded. “You understand?” 

The old man did not understand until a moment too late. The blade wasn’t hers but one of her sell swords. 

“You had to nearly take his head off?” she asked sarcastically. “Just for that you get to clean up the blood and hide the body.” She bent down and picked up the bag of silver.

The men got up. They were willing to kill for her. She needed that right now. She tossed the most reliable — she snorted inwardly — of the bunch of cutthroats the bag. “Get food, horses, and some furs. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us. We’re all going to the Wall.”

**Noah**

Ser Noah stood with his hands on his hips and a scowl upon his face. He turned away from staring at the weird raven who disturbingly watched him from the roof of the keep. If he hadn’t know better, he would swear it had been listening to their conversation. Unfortunately, his glare hadn’t intimidated it any more than he had intimidated the man looking up at him with a stolid, pleasant look upon his face. He couldn’t be that angry with the maester, especially considering Alan was lucky to be alive after Lady Katherine stabbed him.

“You’re telling me that my son led a knight, a noble lady, and a kennel master to the Wall in the middle of a war?”

“I am, Ser Noah.” Alan was sitting in a chair as per Melissa’s orders. Noah got the feeling that he had eventually stopped fighting against her instructions. “You may read the message if you would like.”

“You know that I believe you, I am just wondering why he would do such a thing.” He blew air through his nose in frustration. 

“To save lives. Your son correctly deduced that Lady Katherine was gathering sell swords and thugs to assassinate Ser Jackson. Rather than let that happen, they left.”

Noah couldn’t argue that it wasn’t the smart play. He had always tried to teach Stiles that the best way to avoid an attack was not to be anywhere near the attacker. He would praise Stiles for following his teaching when he saw him again right after he tanned the skin off his backside for putting himself in danger. The maester told Noah about the idea to head towards Deepwood Motte instead of Winterfell. Obviously that hadn’t worked, but no plan really did.

“The Shadow Tower,” Ser Noah breathed. 

“Its distance and the presence of Lord Hale makes it the safest place to hide from Lady Katherine. It also helps Lady Allison as the Watch is apolitical.” 

“I know, but I need him here as soon as he can be.” Ser Noah pulled Lord Glover’s proclamation from his bag. “He has to be in charge of Beacon Hills while we ride south.” 

The maester nodded. “I will send a raven to the Shadow Tower.”

Unsatisfied but resigned, the sworn sword turned to where Ser David was hard at work at preparations for arming the levies. Ser David oversaw the opening up of the armories, so the men could be armed as they arrived. Whittemore had already chosen and sent riders to the outlying villages that fell under the rule of Beacon Hills. It wouldn’t take long for them to gather the four hundred men.

“There’s no way he’ll be able to return from so far away before I have to march south, is there?”

The maester shook his head. “Unless something slows your march, it would take him two weeks at the soonest for him to arrive back here.”

“No, I can’t. As tempting as that might be, I’ll do what my lords have commanded me to do as fast as I can. When you write that message to him, make sure that he understand the significance of the task before him.”

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Your son will take this seriously.” The maester said carefully. “When I write him I will tell him that he needs to exercise all wisdom in trying to do so. But what shall I say to Ser Jackson?”

Ser Noah stroked his chin. “The North is huge. Lady Katherine can’t possibly be everywhere at once, especially when she has to keep a low profile. Tell him to come to Moat Cailin by the least direct means, avoiding Beacon Hills, Deepwood Motte, and Winterfell. We’ll greet him there.”

“And the Lady Allison?”

“Tell her the truth. She has two choices: leave the North or go to Winterfell to join her mother in custody.”

The maester struggled to his feet. His wound would heal, but it did limit his mobility. “I will do so right away.” 

The raven that had been perched on the eaves of the keep gave a great cry and disappeared into the rookery. 

“Strange.” Ser Noah went to give Ser David a hand.

**Isaac**

“Don’t you dare leave this house!” Isaac’s father screamed at him from his chair near the hearth. It was an old thing, its joints creaking with time. Its cushion was grimy with dirt and soot, but it was so worn that if anyone attempted to clean it, it would fall apart. His father spent so much time in the chair, staring at the flames flickering in the hearth, counting the ways that the gods and their world had failed him.

Isaac stood by the front door; the sun hid itself in an overcast sky. His plan had seemed sound when he first thought about it, but now that he had to carry it out and there was part of him that shuddered at the thought of disobeying the command. He was such a cretin, such a coward that he hesitated when he heard the bile in his father’s voice.

“Father.” He said it softly, as if fearful of provoking anger. “Father. They’ve called the banners. I should go.”

“You don’t belong to them.” The snarl echoed across the distance between them. “You belong to me, and I need you here. You’re a terrible son to leave me alone to do all this work by myself! Didn’t I feed your ungrateful maw since you were born? Didn’t I clothe you?”

His father was correct. He was always correct. Ever since a fever had carried off his mother, ever since his older brother had left home, his father had fed and clothed him. It was ungrateful that he would think about running off into the wide world. 

But, a little voice replied, it wasn’t his father who had dug the graves. It had been Isaac who had did that hard work since Camden had left. His father just counted the money and drank it. He didn’t honestly owe his father anything. 

In fact, if he were braver, the little voice insisted, he should shout back at his father. He should tell the wretched old man how much he longed to get away from this house, to get away from the mounds, to get away from the dead. The whole world was alive, and he had been tied to this dreary house that rotted in the shadow of corpses.

“I have to go.” Isaac said instead, and shifted his pack on his shoulders. 

“If you leave …” His father’s voice curled in on itself and trailed off.

Isaac waited for the words that should follow it. Part of him dreaded them and part of him yearned for them. But his father didn’t say anything of the sort. He just turned away, angrily, to stare back into the fire like he had been doing for years.

“Farewell. Until I return.” Isaac stepped out of the house and closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath. It filled his lungs with air like he had never taken a breath before.

He walked down the path towards Beacon Hills. Each step felt lighter than the last. He imagined he should be afraid. He was going to war, to serve in the armies of the Lords of the North, to crush the might of the Lannisters. He could be marching to his own death.

And yet, he felt so alive that he could sing, as he made his way to the keep and the army gathering there.

**Boyd**

Boyd felt warm and dry. He hadn’t expected to feel warm and dry. He hadn’t expected to feel anything, though he had hoped that he would get the chance. It would have been poetic for a sailor to die at sea. Boyd hated poetry. He groaned as pain flared in his back when he tried to shift his position.

“Don’t move.” A woman’s voice reached the edge of his consciousness. 

Boyd opened his eyes, which he immediately recognized as a mistake. He was in a bed — a very comfortable bed. He was covered with bedclothes, the thick blankets keeping him warm. 

“Where am I?” He tried to move again, but it just made him groan once more.

“You know, I thought I had pulled a man from the sea, but it seems I pulled a boy who keeps moving when he’s told not to!” The woman’s voice scolded, but it was teasing and not harsh.

“Sorry.”

“You’re in the House of Lady Argent. Or, more precisely, you’re in the house that used to belong to Lady Argent until she got nipped by the Starks.” The woman sniggered. 

“Who are you?” Boyd focused on her face as it was leaning down over her. She looked young, and her hair was blond and relatively pretty. “Are you … are you in Lady Argent’s employ?”

“Oh, no! No, no, no. I’m Erica. We’re using the house while Lady Argent is away.” 

Boyd bit on his lip. “That was very nice of her.” He didn’t like messing with lords, especially after the last self-styled lord he had worked for had ordered his murder. “Do you work for Lady Argent?”

“Oh, she doesn’t _know_ that we’re using it.” Erica laughed out loud. “I don’t work for anyone. I’m the village madwoman. Pleased to meet you.”

“You don’t look like a madwoman.” 

“What exactly do madwomen look like? You don’t know, do you? But as a matter of fact, I don’t really look like myself in this instance. I may have sort of helped myself to some of the clothes that were here, as well as the mirrors and brushes and soap and stuff like that.”

Boyd didn’t care about that. “You helped me.”

“I did! And getting you all the way over to here from my part of town was … difficult. And dangerous. Especially since people would probably think you’re an Ironborn raider and hang you. Probably me as well for good measure.”

Boyd didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but he needed this cleared up. “I’m not a raider. And I’m not Ironborn.”

“Didn’t think you were. You don’t match the descriptions at all. I think we were supposed to think you were a raider, but you weren’t.”

The sailor smiled a little. “So … why are you doing this?”

“Why am I doing what?”

“Taking care of a stranger. Using a lady’s house?”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time? Madwoman. As in woman who is mad. I’m going to do what I like when I like, and what I am going to do right now is nurse you back to health. All you have to do is rest, heal, and, if I say we have to move, move.”

“I can do that.”

Erica smiled down on him. “Good. We’ve got that out of the way. Would you like some soup?”

**Lydia**

Lydia Martin was bored. She leafed absently through the book she was not reading; the book discussed the different means of celestial navigation. Usually such a work would have no trouble holding her attention, but this afternoon she could barely focus on the words.

The paved courtyard she had chosen for this afternoon was one of the least favored in Highgarden. The castle was so vast and its maze so varied that as years passed different parts of the castle would be influence by difference preferences. One season the north-east corner would be the place to meet for romantic assignations, while the north-west plaza was the place to sit with friends. The next season would see something completely different.

The gardeners of the castle were never so lazy, however, as to let one part of it slip into disrepair. Every place was immaculately tended. Lydia had chosen this particular corner because it had an array of wildflowers that had been imported from the Westerlands and because it would be far away from most anyone else. There was little chance of her being disturbed here.

The scent reminded her of Allison.

She missed her friend, and the disappointment of not having the Lady Argent with her was only heightened by the fact that her friend could be in great danger. The North was so far away, so wild and so out of control. Lydia tried to tell herself that Allison didn’t need her worry; her competent friend could handle herself among the brutish Northerners far better than Lydia herself could. But it did not help. There was no news other than the goings on in the capital and the first trickling reports of war.

Lydia considered her options. The war itself was, at this point, only skirmishes to start, with House Stark trying to pressure House Lannister into freeing the former Hand. She could take a horse and try to skirt around both forces and reach the North. 

She tossed the idea way. A single lady riding through battlefronts and pickets? She was asking to be captured or worse. She was just going to have to wait to hear from her friend. No ravens had been sent, and she doubted anymore would come through until after things had been resolved.

She simply hated waiting. It vexed her so much that she avoided company. What vexed her even more was the disquieting feeling that things were happening just beyond her senses, like a conversation behind a door. It was intolerable. 

The politics of Highgarden itself seemed determined to thwart her. The Tyrells were pretending that nothing of importance was happening, using a mask of normalcy to pretend to neutrality while keeping their cards close to their chest. Lady Olenna was keeping all her assets protected within the maze of politics and false frippery for which her house was known. 

After her prediction for Ser Loras, Lydia understood her place as one of those assets. It didn’t rankle her as much as it could have, as she always wanted to be respected and treasured, but she couldn’t help but notice that it limited her movements. 

She would act to help her friend if she could, and not even the Queen of Thorns would stop her. If only this deuced, silly war would end, and things could get back to normal.

**Chris**

He was close enough to hear the whisper of the blade. He had been close to provide safety for the King and the royal family, but he had been informed that he would need to make sure that the former Hand would be safely seen away from the square before the Great Sept of Baelor. He had been prepared for that.

He was a good knight. He believed in honor and he believed in loyalty, and he had been astounded to hear of the Hand’s treason. It wasn’t his place to question what was going to happen though.

But, as Lord Varys and the Queen Mother vainly pleaded with the boy King to change his edict, while Sansa Stark shrieked her denials, he did begin to question it. Even a person with the minimal training in politics and strategy knew that beheading Lord Stark without a trial would plunge the whole country into civil war.

He didn’t know what he could do. All the people here were far above him. He could only stand there in growing horror, knowing that blood would soak the ground from Winterfell to Dorne. Would it help him if he said he didn’t know what to do?

He was close enough to hear the whisper of the blade as it came down and plunged the world into chaos. Eddard Stark was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been averaging a chapter every two weeks, but I'll be pausing on this until December. I'm concentrating my NaNoWriMo on my Season 4 Rewrite/Stackson story, _Strike the Sun_


	14. Fire and Blood (Part 1)

**Stiles**

Stiles rubbed his hands together before he put on his cloak. At that movement, Scott looked up from where he was sweeping the floor of the inn. His friend had taken it upon himself clean and repair the inn and the stables as much as he could with no real tools. It was probably better than doing nothing all day.

“Where are you going?”

“To the Tower.”

Scott frowned at him. “What makes you think you’ll get a different answer today?”

Stiles strode to the door. “It’s been a little over two weeks since we sent ravens to Deepwood Motte, Winterfell and home. One of them had to have gotten through. Someone should have sent a message back by now.”

Scott gripped his makeshift broom. “Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it, Scott.” Stiles tried to play off Scott’s concern, but he was worried. The first week had passed with little problem; the situation was complex and would require thought and consultation. The second week had led Stiles to sleepless nights and a gnawing in his gut. 

“Maybe they don’t know what to do. War has come. We might be the last thing on their mind.”

Stiles glanced around. “Don’t let Ser Jackson hear you say that.” The knight had grown more and more angry and sour as time passed and he was far away from what he saw as his duty. 

“He’s out hitting a sack full of moss with a sword,” Scott observed. “He can’t hear us.”

“Scott.” Stiles pulled on his gloves. “I have to check. I have to.”

Scott looked at him with concern, but then looked down in surrender. “Don’t annoy the Watch too much.”

“They love me. I’m the high point of their day.”

He stepped out the front door of the inn and into the brisk breeze. Summer still lingered but when the wind blew just right it could hit someone right in the bones. Stiles had noticed that the older members of the Watch knew exactly when that was about to occur and they unconsciously twisted so the chill struck their cloaks rather than them.

The gate guard didn’t even challenge him anymore, but he did lift his hand in greeting. The guard — like most of the rank-and-file of the watch — were remarkably friendly, especially when you considered they were constrained for life to stand guard on a block of ice larger than any glacier in the known world. It was a forsaken place, but he had been told it was a better place to than what lay on the other side of it.

Stiles knew the path by heart now. The Shadow Tower was unique among the Wall’s castles in how it made use of natural formations to build upon. He imagined how thousands of years ago the Watch must have carefully and slowly carved holes into the rock so each timber could be set. The timbers were so thick that they could hold wagons if that was what needed. Every once in a while, you could come across a timber that was nearing the end of its lifespan. Hundreds of feet above the ground, it would wobble or give just enough to make a climber’s heart rise in their throat. Most members of the Watch chose to jump right over those.

The wind only grew harsher as he went higher, but, of course, he had to go to the very top. The pinnacle of the towering rock held only the rookery and the bridge to the wall itself. The rookery was carved from a shallow depression, with the cages of the ravens arranged to keep them out of the worst of the wind.

When Stiles finally reached the top, the Shadowed Tower’s maester was not there, but his assistant was. The youth, come here from the Fingers, looked up in pleasure. He was not surprised to see Stiles there; he had probably been waiting for it. “You received a raven.”

“I did!” Stiles heart nearly leapt out of his chest. “May … may I have the message?”

“The chief steward has it. He told me to tell you to go find him.” 

“He expects me to go all the way back down to his quarters?” Stiles grimaced.

“No.” The assistant smiled jovially, taking joy in what was going to be painful, and jerked his thumb towards the Wall.

The bridge between the top of the Tower and the top of the Wall had been designed by sadists. In their defense, it had been designed to be dropped at a moment’s notice should wildlings manage to climb the Wall in force. With the bridge down, they would have to descend the other side of the Wall, all the way vulnerable to archers from the Tower itself. 

As a result, the bridge was a five-foot wide, thirty-foot long walkway with no railing. At night, torches as tall as a man were sunk into divots so those with night duty wouldn’t fall off in any weather. For people who were afraid of heights or those who were clumsy — like Stiles — it was something out of a nightmare. 

“That bastard,” Stiles muttered as a gust of wind pulled at his cloak as he crossed the Death-Trapped Bridge of Death, as he liked to call it.

Derek Hale was at one of the watch posts, listening to one of the guards talk about its condition. Apparently, one of them was due for replacement was coming due and as Chief Steward, his job was to build a new one and get it up the Wall.

“Lord Hale!” Stiles cried, raising his hand, as he came down the walkway. It was a game they played.

Derek ignored him. 

Stiles was sure that the man enjoyed this game, since they played it every day and Stiles had yet to be tossed over the side. “Lord Hale! How are you this fine afternoon?”

The corners of the guard’s mouth started to turn up and Derek’s shoulders sagged a little. “I think that’s all for the day.” The steward turned on his heel and tried to stalk away.

Stiles got right in front of him. “There you are, Lord Hale. I’m told you have some message for me.”

“No.”

Stiles put his hands on hips. “No?”

“If you were told that Lord Hale had messages for you, you were lied to.” Derek stared down at him stonily.

“Very well, Derek Hale, you won this round. I was told that you had messages for me.”

“It’s not a game. I. Am. Not. Lord. Hale.” If eyebrows could kill …

“It was meant to be a pleasant diversion.” Stiles enjoyed baiting the man, but today he was getting fidgety. 

Derek softened. “I don’t know why you seek your amusement at my expense.” He reached into his pocket and pullet out the raven’s scroll. “Soon, you’ll be gone and our meetings will have come to a blessed end.”

Stiles took the message in his hand, and yet suddenly, he felt ill at ease at the thought of leaving. He looked forward to the daily trek up to the Tower even with the cold winds, the terrifying bridges, and the solemn, unhappy steward. 

“Oh. All things do come to an end.”

“You’re going to be busy.” Derek observed. “You’re going to be in charge of Beacon Hills.”

“What? You read it?” Stiles was shocked.

“It’s the maester’s duty to read every message that comes into or out of the Tower. He had me read this message because it concerns my cousin.”

Stiles glanced over the message and then shoved it into his sleeve. “Won’t you reconsider my suggestion?”

“Unless he takes the Black, which Ser Jackson has stated no interest in doing, we can’t get involved. I can’t get involved.” Derek shook his head. “And I will be too busy anyway.”

Stiles’ natural curiosity got the better of him. “Something big is happening?”

“Lord Commander Mormont has called for a Great Ranging.” Derek’s eyes go to the edge of the Wall and into the mysterious wilderness beyond. “Qhorin Halfhand will lead one hundred men to meet up with him.”

“You’re going north?”

“No.” Derek shook his head. “I’m Chief Steward. I’ll stay here, but one hundred men is half our contingent, and our duties don’t go away simply because they have. It’s a good time for you to leave.”

Stile felt strangely bereft once again. He didn’t know quite why. “Farewells are never good. Thank you, Derek.”

“No.” Derek’s voice was solemn. “Thank you.”

Stiles stopped. The wind coming from the lands beyond the wall made his cloak snap in the breeze.

“My family is the Watch, but it was still … good of you to believe I would help protect my cousin.” 

Stiles looked at the man who had lost so much, though he had found something new to devote his life to. “You’re welcome.” He made his way down the tower, strangely saddened.

**Allison**

Allison dropped to one knee in order to examine the mossy bank before her. The spongy growth would cover her quarry’s tracks from casual observation, but if she got close, she could find the deer’s hoof print concealed there. She was still on the right track.

This was the best part of hunting. To her, it had never been the kill. It certainly wasn’t dressing the kill. It was stalking, a game of wits — intellect versus instinct — between hunter and prey. Allison liked going after bigger game because they were usually smarter, quicker, and more capable of evading her. Effortless victory had long ago ceased to be rewarding. She hadn’t gotten to choose while they had been traveling in the wilderness, because food had been such a necessity. There had been no guarantee that game would be found, so she took easy victories when she found them. But now that the four of them had enough food stored that they wouldn’t starve, she could take her time.

Prey species were abundant this close to the Wall. Stiles had told her the stories of the lands stretching from the shadow of the ice to fifty leagues south. Bran the Builder, a long-dead Lord of Winterfell, had given this land to the Night’s Watch so they could provision themselves, so it was called the Gift. Later kings had continued to honor this bequest. But as the numbers of the Night’s Watch dwindled, they used less and less of the Gift, and as raids from beyond the Wall increased, fewer and fewer people outside of the Watch lived here. It became a wild part of the North.

Even as summer neared its end, the woods and hills were still filled with game. The Watch’s wardens could easily keep the two-hundred men at the Shadow Tower fed without having to go very far from the fortification that was their home. Allison was tracking a deer now, but she had seen ducks, rabbits, squirrels, elk, and even a few moose. 

Allison had barely noticed the two weeks she and her companions had spent at the wall. Together, the four of them had made the abandoned outbuildings livable, comfortable even, as they had waited patiently for news from farther south. Allison didn’t say it out loud, but she was enjoying all of those days.

Things were simpler here. The basic necessities of life were food, shelter, and safety. Allison and Scott carefully provided for the four of them. She hunted, as she were doing now, and Scott gathered edibles in the woods. She would leave early in the morning before the boys stirred and follow the road or the stream or even, once or twice, the line of the Wall. It had been quiet and peaceful.

She’d field dress her kills and then drag them back when she thought she had reached the limit of what she could carry. She remembered the first time she had caught a doe. It was a good-sized one, and it had taken her to the limits of her strength to drag it back to the deserted inn. She had been exhausted, but it had been the best type of exhaustion.

At times like that, she could forget about her family and all the danger and darkness that had entered her life since she came to Beacon Hills. She didn’t blame the Northerners at all for it; they were the ones whose lives had been disrupted.

She loved her family; she had never known anything else. Her mother and father were dedicated people. They were strict, but they had always been kind to her. They believed in her. Her aunt had been more like a sister to her. They had spent hours in the woods together; they had gossiped together. She hadn’t spent much time around her grandfather, mostly due to the insistence of her father and mother, but she had been proud — as she suspected most people were proud — of his power and influence. 

She hadn’t asked questions. Allison had heard rumors for what her family was known. She had seen reactions when people dared to cross them. And she had ignored them. They were family. Now she knew the things they did, the acts they would undertake to gain power.

It was part of the Great Game, of course, but that had been an abstraction for her in the days before. Now it was real.

There was no pretending that she didn’t know what was going on; not anymore. Her family had decided to increase its power and influence beyond the Westerlands by taking control of Beacon Hills. They had pretended to do this by marriage, which was the standard of the day and nothing for which Allison should be ashamed. But their real plan had been to arrange for an ancient family to be murdered and her Aunt Kate to seize their lands for her own. Now, she had been intended to play her own part in this by securing the lands through marriage to a bastard.

Allison hated that word. She hated the way it was applied to Ser Jackson. Why should he be held as less than others because of the misbehavior of his father and mother? Ser Jackson was indeed prone to arrogance and jealousy, but he demanded excellence from himself and he acknowledged kindness from others, even if he hid his response to it behind disdain. He was hard-working and dedicated, and, if handled with appropriate grace, he was responsive to guidance.

He would make a fine husband. Of course, there were two problems. First and foremost, there was the messy political situation. If Robb Stark managed to free his father, then the Lord of Winterfell would no doubt return the Hale lands to Ser Jackson. She would probably not be welcome in the North. If the King prevailed, then her grandfather might see no more use in securing the lands through marriage, and that would mean even more danger for Jackson. On the other hand, marrying him might protect both of them. It would certainly change the game.

The second problem for which there was not a solution was Scott McCall. She had finally learned his last name, which seemed strange that she should want to. Most servants and most commoners, while _having_ last names, didn’t use them. Their families didn’t mean anything in the greater scope of things. But Scott had come to mean something to her, slowly and without notice. His face had stalked her heart as expertly as she was stalking this deer.

He was handsome; there was no denying that. He was also good at his chosen profession. Before they had left Beacon Hills, she had talked with her mother, and they had seldom seen such a well-tended stables and kennel. 

And he was dutiful. Scott had never been sour or uncooperative even though he had ridden over five hundred miles from his home in terrible weather and through increasing danger. He was a servant to the Whittemores, but he could have easily followed Ser Jackson’s orders and accompanied him back to Beacon Hills, which would have been much safer for the Dornishman. He hadn’t. He had stuck with them, even though he would most likely be a nameless casualty should the Stark forces catch up with her or the Argent forces catch up with Jackson.

And he was kind. Scott did more than avoid causing trouble, he went out of his way to make their lives easier. He helped her with her catches even though he had his own tasks, but he was always careful not to stir up the knight’s jealousy. He listened to his friend rattle on about trivia that didn’t mean a thing to the stable master and never would. He knew when to be close by for the knight’s sour moods and when it was better to be gone.

And he was brave. Scott had never been trained to fight, not the way Stiles, Ser Jackson, and she had. Yet when confronted by others, when on the road, he had stood with them. Allison had also paid attention to how he watched her; he loved her — she knew that now — fearlessly, though he would never be so rude as to speak it. She had felt it; she returned it.

And that was indeed a problem. They could never be. Her life, her destiny, was not completely her own. No matter how Scott made her feel, they couldn’t be together.

Allison pushed that sad thought away. She’d never catch the deer if her head was somewhere else. She started making her way down a wooded bank. At the bottom was a swift, narrow, and shallow creek. It wasn’t frozen yet, but it would be ice cold.

She was kneeling down to get a taste of the water when she realized that the woods had gone silent. 

This wasn’t the Wolfswood or even the forests of the Westerlands that surrounded her home. Those woods were always filled with sound of birds calling to each other in summer. But there were still birds here, and they had gone quiet. The whole stand of trees had gone still. 

Casually, carefully, she drew an arrow for her bow. She kept it close to her body, gripping her bow tight. She stood up and whirled around. A figure dashed from tree to tree. 

“Come out!” She raised the bow. Now she was being hunted, but she wasn’t as helpless as a deer.

A man sidled out from behind the trees. He looked like he’d been riding rough, but he had always been a little greasy. He put both hands up. “Now, there’s no need to be hasty.” He had a dagger and a sword on his hip. 

“I’m not.” She sank the arrow into his leg right above the knee. The only people who should be anywhere near the Shadowed Tower would be her traveling companions, the Night’s Watch, and wildlings. He wasn’t wearing black, she’d never seen him before, and he was wearing clothing that marked him as a northerner. This meant trouble.

He cursed at her and fell over, very ungracefully. Allison had already determined that he wasn’t alone. She pulled another arrow and took a few steps forward to get into a better position. “How many more are with you?” 

The wounded man cursed at her. 

“I’ll put this arrow in your other leg! How many more are with you?”

Allison didn’t need to wait for the man to answer. Another figure leaped out from a tree to her right, and she didn’t hesitate. If they hadn’t meant her any harm, they would have called out when she shot the first one. This one, however, she only clipped in the meaty part of the shoulder. He spun around but kept his feet. 

She was good, but she was only one person. While she drew another arrow, a third man came from her blindside and knocked the bow from her hands. “No more of that,” he promised. 

“You’re right.” She pulled her hunting knife out of his sheath and aimed at the tendons, hoping to make that arm useless. Allison spun away and back up only to have someone grab her wrist. She struggled, but then was stopped by the flash of familiar golden hair.

“Kate?”

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Lady Katherine managed to pin her with both hands. “You’ve led me a merry chase, but it’s over.”

Allison struggled, but other men came out and helped subdue her. 

“Why are you doing this?” She shouted, but she already knew. “You don’t have to do what Grandfather wants.”

“I know that, but I’m Katherine Argent. I hunt with kings, and no prey ever escapes me.” Kate whispered in Allison’s ear. “I’m going to kill that your betrothed, and then you and I are going to go home, and let all the other stupid men fight their stupid wars.”

“I won’t help you!”

“Yes, you will.” Kate helped her men tie her up. “You may have convinced Ser Jackson to run, but he won’t abandon you. None of them will. They’ll come looking through you. After all, sometimes all a hunter needs is just need the right bait.”

**Scott**

Wiping the dust and sweat from his brow, Scott looked over the finished room. He had dragged out all the old furniture, smashing up the useless chair and table, airing the stale, straw-filled mattresses, and pulling the heavy bed-frame into another room down the hallway. The four rooms on the second floor were still stable after long disuse.

It was busywork. They would never use this room, but Scott had recently developed an aversion to being idle. When he could sit and think, his thoughts didn’t stray anywhere good. In fact, his thoughts were downright unpleasant. The first unwelcome intrusion had always been _What am I doing here?_

The question always made Scott feel like he was betraying Stiles. It was the same feeling that had convinced him to give into the squire’s demand that he use his connection with the Lady Allison to bring their fears to her attention. Scott felt out of his depth and being taken advantage of. He didn’t want to feel this way, but he couldn’t stop. Because Stiles, Jackson, Allison — they had resources. They had family, or skills, or social standing to control what was happening here. 

Scott had no control. He was a commoner with no name, no position, and no wealth, and here he was in the middle of it with people who had at least one of those things. And the one thing he wanted, he would never have.

He heard the front door of the inn burst open and Stiles calling out his name. He went downstairs. At the bottom of the stairs, the squire was alight with nervous energy. He held up a raven’s scroll.

“There’s an answer?”

“Yeah. My father had much to say. Where’s Jackson? Where’s Allison?”

“Ser Jackson’s out back, practicing. Lady Allison went hunting.” 

Stiles frowned. “Great. She probably won’t be back until nightfall.”

“Probably.”

His friend was frustrated. It was such a normal response that it comforted Scott a bit. When Stiles felt something was important, he could be extraordinarily impatient. 

“Ser Jackson needs to hear this. Would you get him?”

Scott knew that Stiles didn’t mean to make it sound like an order. He knew that, but he was sweaty and gross and not nearly as enthusiastic about the scroll as his best friend was. “Yes, milord.”

Scott finished going down the stairs and passed the gawping squire. “Scott, I didn’t … I wasn’t giving you a command.”

“You weren’t?” Scott felt horrible, but the words tumbled out of his mouth as if he couldn’t stop him. “I’m sorry, milord.”

“Why are you being like this?”

Scott didn’t answer and headed toward the back door. Stiles watched after him as he disappeared through the abandoned kitchen and into the back.

The knight was working hard, hitting the jury-rigged practice dummy they had set up. He had stripped to the waist and was doing overhand chops. The dull practice sword must have sent a visceral jolt up his arms. The hits formed a cadence that could be heard throughout the abandoned town.

“Ser Jackson!” Scott called out.

With a final slash, Jackson let his arms drop and turned to face him. “What?”

“Stiles has news.” Scott took a deep breath. Jackson’s brusque behavior was far more palatable, for some reason. “A raven came today.”

Jackson’s face did this strange dance. First, there was annoyance, which to be fair was his standard face. Second, there was excitement; they’d all been waiting for news. Third, there was fear, but it was quickly stifled. 

“It’s about time,” he remarked sourly. “Let me clean myself off.” He eyed Scott. “You look filthy. You should clean up as well.”

They went to the rain barrel by the corner of the inn. Stiles had probably already started pacing, but he could wait. There was a thick, rough towel nearby. They cleaned themselves off deliberately.

Stiles was indeed pacing. “Did you stop to bathe?”

“Yes.” Jackson adjusted his tunic. “It’s not like we can take immediate action. Lady Allison won’t be back for hours.”

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it. “Fine. We have some things to think about, and it is better that we talk about before she gets back.”

Scott frowned. 

“Let me see the message.” Ser Jackson extended his hand. Stiles reluctantly gave it up. The knight read it in silence.

Jackson read it and then he read it again. Finally he handed the scroll back to Stiles. “Congratulations.”

Scott looked between them in confusion. It seemed an odd thing to say. 

Stiles took the scroll back without looking at it. In fact, he was staring at the ground. “It’s not … it’s not something great.”

“What is it?” Scott asked. 

When Stiles didn’t answer, Jackson spoke up. “It seems that Stiles has been named Steward of Beacon Hills while my father is away at war.” He glanced between the pair of them, and a sly smile spread across his face. “He’ll essentially act as lord for the duration of the war.”

“Oh.” Now, it was Scott’s turn to look at the ground. He felt even worse now than before. “They’ll want you back as soon as possible.”

“Yeah.” Stiles tried to meet his glance but failed. 

“For my part, I’m to meet up with my father and Stiles’ father at Moat Cailin. Lord Stark has tasked them with garrisoning it.” 

“That’s a thousand miles.” Stiles exclaimed. 

“You needn’t act as if you’re concerned, and you shouldn’t be. Most of my trip will be on the Kingsroad,” Ser Jackson scoffed. “You’ve got a five-hundred mile journey back to Beacon Hills.” 

“What does it say about Lady Allison?” Scott asked. 

Stiles bit his lip. “Lady Allison is to be escorted to Winterfell. Her mother remains safe and well, but she is a hostage. Lady Allison’s safety is vouched for by Lord Robb himself.” 

“She’s to be a prisoner!” Scott exclaimed. “But she didn’t do anything!”

Stiles shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. She’s a member of a house who are pledged to the Lannisters. It’s only common sense.”

“She doesn’t have to be …” Ser Jackson wondered. “She can stay in the Gift.”

“She can’t join the Watch,” Scott argued.

“No, fool.”

“He’s right, Scott,” Stiles nodded along, seeing where the knight was going. “As she long as she remains in the Gift, no one would be required to force her go to Winterfell. The Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms. She could travel to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and take a ship back to King’s Landing.” 

Scott shook his head. “She can’t go by herself. That’s three hundred miles.”

“If any woman could make it, it would be her.” Jackson observed. “But let’s not put words in the Lady’s mouth. She might want to join her mother at Winterfell. We will talk to her when she comes back.” 

Scott turned and left without waiting to hear what either of them were going to say. It was obvious now that their two-week stay here at the wall was coming to an end. If that was so, he was going to make sure that their saddles and tackle were in the best shape for the long ride.

It also gave him some time to himself.

Not much time, though, as Stiles soon followed him up. He observed Scott working on Jackson’s horse. Silently. Finally, he sighed and came up to him. 

“Why are you angry with me?”

Scott applied the saddle knife to a rough spot with determination. “I’m not angry.”

“You are my oldest friend and a terrible liar.”

“I’m not angry with _you._ ”

“Then whom?”

“The scroll.”

“You’re angry with a piece of parchment?”

“No.” Stiles was trying to distract him, but Scott didn’t want to be distracted. “Did you tell me everything on it?”

“Didn’t I show it to you?”

“No. Why would you show it to me?” 

Stiles gnawed on his thumb; he hasn’t missed the emphasis. “I meant it. You’re my oldest friend. Nothing’s going to change that.”

“Everything’s changed. There was a message on that scroll. It had a message for you. It had a message for Ser Jackson. It had a message for Lady Allison. There was no message for me, because I’m not important.”

“Scott, that’s not true.”

“I didn’t want to get involved. I didn’t, because I knew that the more I got involved, the more I would be hurt, and it doesn’t help make it less painful that I can see it coming.”

Stiles’ jaw fell open, but he regathered his wits quickly. “How … no one here is trying to hurt you.”

“What are your orders, milord?” 

“Stop saying that! I’m not giving you orders!” 

“Then who will? The only thing for me is wait to see who I ride with, so I can take care of the animals. You can say that it’s not going to be like that all you want, but it’s not true. There is only one truth that applies to me, and that is I’m the only person here who doesn’t get to decide what he does next. I’m the one without a choice.”

Stiles stood there as Scott continued to work on Jackson’s tackle. After a few minutes, he left. There was nothing he could say to gainsay it. The days when their friendship could be uncomplicated were over. Stiles would be ruling a city and Scott? Scott would be cleaning shit out of the stables.

By the time he was done, the horses would have been ready for any journey. He packed up his tools and walked back towards the inn. The sun was low in the afternoon, shining in his eyes, but he could still see enough that he stopped in horror.

There was a wolf near the tree line. It was there for a moment and then it was gone. But Scott recognized that wolf. It belonged to the madman who had scarred him. He took a step forward. There was no further sign of it. 

He ran into the inn. Jackson and Stiles were sitting at the table. “Where’s Lady Allison?”

“We were wondering that ourselves. She’s usually back by now.”

“We have to go find her!” Scott exclaimed. “I saw it, Stiles.”

“Saw what?”

“The wolf!”

“What wolf?” Ser Jackson and Stiles said at the exact same moment.

“The wolf! The wolf! From the Hale House ruins?” Scott pleaded with Stiles. Stiles eyes grew wide. 

“But why? Why here? Why now?”

Ser Jackson banged on the table. “Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?”

“The only thing that matters is that Lady Allison might be in trouble. We have to find her now!”

Stiles threw up his hands. “There’s only one small problem with that. She’s much better in the woods than we are!”

“We need help. Can you ask the Watch for help?” Scott suggested.

“Someone. Tell me.” Jackson grew impatient. Scott told him about the wildlings that had come to Beacon Hills, and that the one who had stabbed him a wolf that he recognized. He left out the entire story of the mark.

The knight stood up. “If there’s a wildling out there, we have to find her. I’m with Scott — go ask the watch for help. Scott and I will take our horses and go out riding for her.”

They broke up. Scott felt his heart in his throat.


	15. Fire and Blood (Part 2)

**Jackson**

“This is pointless.” Jackson shifted angrily in his saddle. The woods all looked the same to him. “We’ll never find her at this rate.”

“We have to keep going, and this is the direction she went. Blow your horn.” 

“If I do that, kennel boy, it’ll let the people that you’re afraid are out here know exactly where we are. That wouldn’t be good, since you can’t tell me how many they are or what they want.” Never-the-less, Jackson fingered the horn that hung from his saddle. He found that he had to trust the man riding behind him.

“I’d rather have them find us than find her.”

Jackson turned to look at him sharply, but Scott didn’t even flinch from the glare. The knight made an effort to put his jealousy in check. When danger appeared, there was little difference between loyalty to friends, loyalty to your lord, and loyalty to your love. The only thing that mattered is that they both wanted the Lady Allison safe. 

“You can barely swing that sword, Scott. If there are a lot of them, I won’t be able to protect you.”

“I know, but I don’t care. I can still act like I know what I’m doing. You’re much better at it than I am, but they don’t know that.” 

Jackson glanced down at the ground beneath the horse’s feet. He wasn’t the best at woodcraft of the four of them; Scott was better at following a trail than he was, and Allison was better by far than both of them. In addition, if she didn’t want to leave a trail, she wouldn’t, and since she was hunting, she would stalk her prey as best she could. The chances of them tracking her were slim. 

“Be wary.” Jackson warned and Scott nodded his assent.

He brought the horn to his lips and let out one long blast. It was simple call, used to signal others their location; Allison would have hunted with horns before. She’d know that someone needed her to come to them.

“So we wait?”

The knight nodded. “We’ll wait for a little bit. If there’s no response, we’ll move on.”

“Shouldn’t we stay still in one place?”

“In order to find her quicker? Probably. But if there are enemies out here, staying in one place for too long will simply offer ourselves for an ambush.” Ser Jackson noticed that Scott was listening to him intently when Jackson talked about strategy, and he had never looked chagrined when the knight had suggested there might not be enemies in wait. The commoner’s impatience only seem to be direct at delays in looking for Lady Allison.

His words about an ambush were transformed from warning to prediction when Jackson heard the tell-tale whistle of an arrow. For a strange moment, Ser Jackson felt as if the world had slowed to a crawl. He felt that he could turn his head and watch the arrow coming towards him from a thicket between two trees. He couldn’t actually watch; arrows moved much faster than that, especially the arrow that buried itself right in his horse’s neck.

The world suddenly sped up to horrendous speed as his horse reared in pain and terror. There was no controlling the mortally wounded beast. His instincts told him that he had to leap free — the horse could crush him in its death throws — but his training, at war with his instincts, made him try to force the animal to heel. The surrounding trees appeared to twist from vertical to horizontal, and he felt himself falling backwards. Before he could attempting anything else, he was flat on his back on the ground, and his steed was as tall as a mountain above him.

Jackson rolled out of the way, heedless of the direction, as his horse collapsed on the ground. In his throes, the stallion grazed his thigh with one hoof with a blow that would leave a bruise for weeks. It was a damn sight better though than the entire horse falling on him. Even as the pain lanced up his leg, he found himself face down in the grass and dirt, and there was a twig poking him in the nose.

“Ser Jackson!” Scott’s panicked voice called out from somewhere beyond the dying horse. More arrows whistled through the air above him.

“Get down!” Jackson hissed at Scott, even though he wasn’t quite sure where the kennel master was. With a glance over his shoulder he saw that Scott’s horse was galloping away. Scott had at least managed to dismount before he got struck by an archer. 

He raised his head and reoriented himself. Jackson had to lift his voice over the dying shrikes of his horse and its mortal thrashing. 

“The thicket!” He commanded. “Get in the thicket.”

“What?” He could barely hear Scott’s voice.

“Get in the Gods-damned thicket!” Jackson abandoned dignity and half slithered and crawled into a thicket of low-hanging bushes. Of course, they had to be thorn bushes, but at least they were heavy enough to cover them and maybe deflect a few arrows. One thorn scratched him right across the face. 

In the next moment, Scott was next to him, but his face was red and he was breathing heavily. The other man didn’t say anything; it looked like he couldn’t speak.

“If your lungs give out right fucking now, dog boy, I’ll stab you myself!” Jackson gritted out, even as he realized intimidating Scott probably wasn’t going to help. His own heart was pounding in his ears. It felt like the battle with the wildlings in the woods outside Beacon Hills, only this time he was the one out-maneuvered. 

Scott nodded once while trying to calm his breathing; he wheezed out long breaths. His face didn’t show any anger with or fear of the knight; he could understand the danger they were in. 

“Did you see how many there were?” Jackson demanded, softly

Rather than speak between slow, deep breaths, Scott held up three fingers. He pointed in three different directions.

“Are you sure there were only three?”

Scott shook his head. 

So be it. Jackson pulled his sword from his sheath, which was a little awkward for him to do when he was on his hands and knees. As much cover as the thorn bushes gave, they couldn’t last forever, and there was no way he could get himself and Scott to other safety. When there was no defense, you had to attack. 

“Stay here.” He started to move forward and Scott grabbed his arm. “What?”

The other man gasped. “Help …” 

“Not like that, you won’t. You’ll get in the way. So you stay here and defend yourself.” Jackson pointed to the hilt of Scott’s sword. “Do as I say.” He felt Scott’s hand release his arm in compliance.

Now was his time. Every day for years Jackson had trained. He had trained until his hands bled, until his arms felt they were made of lead. Trained at the sword. Trained at the shield. Trained at the lance. Every day. Now it was time to find out if all those days had been wasted.

Jackson charged out of the thicket, with his sword raised high and a war cry on his lips. To the uninitiated, it may have seemed foolish to shout at the people you had been hiding from a moment before, but there was a method. His enemies were hunting them; this meant that their eyes were focused on finding them, their ears sharpened for any movement. A flurry of movement and an explosion of sound might give Jackson the momentary advantage he needed to be close with them.

In accordance with Scott’s count, there were three that he could see. They had bows out, but they were now too close for ranged weapons to be truly effect. In the moment they turned to face him, his sprint had closed the distance. Jackson felt his leg muscles strain with the effort he called forth. His first blow sheered through a man’s bow and the tip of the sword raked across the muscles of his shoulder and chest. Not a deep wound, but a painful one.

Events moved faster. The wounded man dropped his ruined bow and drew a sword. His friends did the same. Jackson scorned them; they should have pulled back and achieved some distance. They’d forsaken their bows so as to not to shoot their friend, but he was good as dead anyway. Jackson gutted him with his follow-through before he could get the blade fully out of its scabbard. 

Two-on-one swordplay was always dangerous, his teachers had insisted on telling him. There was no way to fully eliminate the advantage that multiple opponents held. Only the greatest swordsmen could comfortably fight multiple opponents. Jackson had grown up on the tales of Ser Arthur Dayne, and her Jackson wasn’t in the Sword of the Morning’s league.

Not yet, anyway.

The men facing him were decidedly not amateurs. They were sell swords who had been in fights before. One feinted to the left, but Jackson saw it and took a step into him, pushing him back and blocking his sword with a noise that echoed over the meadow. It was a good defensive maneuver, but it nearly caused Jackson’s end because the other swordsman thrust at him from behind. It snagged Jackson’s tunic instead of his flesh, and he quickly slid between them.

There it was. They were both good, but they were both greedy. Each wanted the kill, Jackson realized as he circled around. They weren’t a team, they were two men after the same prize.

The two men pressed him tight, and Jackson concentrated on avoiding their attacks, but he slowly, hopefully slowly enough so that they wouldn’t notice, backed towards two old oaks that had grown close together. One step back, defend, thrust. Two steps back, defend, thrust. He kept them in a rhythm so they assumed all he could do is manage a defense.

Greed could be an ally in combat. When Jackson reached a spot between the trunks, he pretended to overreach and stumble. Both of the men, trained to take advantage of any mistake, lunged at nearly the same time only to find the space between the two trees wasn’t wide enough for both of them. Their own maneuvers had knocked them off balance. 

Immediately, Jackson whirled to the man on the left and pushed him into the other all his strength. Tangled up after already being unbalanced, they fell to the ground. The closest swordsman got a blade slightly beneath his left shoulder blade, shattering ribs and piercing the lung through. He’d drown on his own blood. The other man kicked the dying sell sword off of him, only to find himself still out of position and without enough space to properly recover his guard.

Jackson took his enemies hand off at the wrist. He stepped away briskly from the man. They were too far away from anyone who might be able to stop the bleeding, so Jackson didn’t want to risk any attacks motivated by revenge. 

He’d taken three assailants by himself. Jackson was feeling pretty good about his skills. Of course, that’s when the bottom fell out of everything. There hadn’t been three assailants. There’d been four.

“Drop the sword.” 

Jackson didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but when he turned, he saw the man had grabbed a hold of Scott and held a short blade to his throat. Scott’s left eye was swelling. He hadn’t been captured without a fight. 

“I think not.”

“I’ll cut his throat right in front of you.”

“Of course you will.” Jackson kept his voice severe; he also glanced to see the downed man trying to staunch the massive bleeding from his severed arm. “But how you chose to hold him? That’s an awkward position for your weapon to be in. You can kill him, but I’ll take your head from your shoulders before his heart stops.”

The sell sword frowned, but he knew the truth when he heard it.

“I have a proposal how this can end with your head on your shoulders. You take me to the person in charge, and we’ll see what happens then. Bringing me to them is probably as good as killing me yourself.”

Jackson watched the thug think it over. If he was at all experienced in this type of skullduggery, he’d take the deal, because he knew that Jackson would have no reason not to act exactly as the knight had said. Scott wasn’t in a position to move and breathing heavily, but he wasn’t incapacitated yet. He was also terrified, though not panicked. 

“Keep at least twenty feet away from me.” 

Jackson gestured with his sword. “Lead the way.”

The sell-sword led him to a hollow about a quarter mile from where they had fought. Jackson noticed horses tethered to trees nearby as they came over the ridge, but he saw only four people in the depression: two more brutes, a tied-up Lady Allison, and an angry Lady Katherine.

“Really?” The huntress put a king’s ransom worth of disdain and exasperation into the word when she saw the three of them descend into the hollow. “Four against two, and you botch it?” 

“You let them go!” Allison shouted, twisting at her restraints, so she can face her relative. “Kate, I swear, you better not hurt them!”

Jackson realized that even prepared, he was still vulnerable to arrow fire, so he stood near a tree he could dodge behind. “I’ve killed three of your men. I’ll kill more if I have to, but I think I’d rather take my betrothed and my kennel master and leave.”

Lady Katherine lifted one corner of her mouth. “You’re trying to intimidate me? That takes balls, you little cunt. But I have a different idea. Here’s what is going to happen: these two men are going to pick up their bows and shoot at you, while I and the idiot with the hostage will …”

“Don’t kill him!” Allison pleaded suddenly.

The huntress looked over her shoulder. “You know I can’t leave the bastard alive, so you mean the servant. Oh, very well. I can’t deny you anything, sweetheart.” She turned back to Jackson. “The three of us are going to kill you, but we’ll leave the hostage alive.” She drew her own knife. “Do try to make it enjoyable, won’t you, Ser Jackson?” 

Kate’s sell swords drew their weapons and advanced on him.

**Peter**

The line between madness and dedication was far thinner than anyone had any reasonable right to expect.

If someone examined closely the situation in which Peter found himself, they could be excused if they wondered at that line. In the last months, Peter had hijacked an Ironborn ship, sailed all the way from the shores of the Milkwater near Westwatch-by-the-Bridge south to Beacon Hills only to turn around and ride like a madman five hundred or so miles back to the very same lands near the Shadow Tower. In other words, he had traveled over a thousand miles to come back to a point a little under fifteen miles from his original point of departure. Madness or dedication?

Peter would like to think it was dedication. For six long years after the fire that had destroyed his family he had healed, planned, and schemed. Even scarred and aching from the burns that had nearly claimed his life, he had braved the wild lands beyond the wall while mastering his long-neglected ability to warg. He had had no use for the skill beforehand, but he needed every advantage he could find. With that in mind, he had made allegiances and established a reputation among the wildlings. He had braved not one but two trips into lands whose inhabitants would kill any Free Folk that dared to come there. All of this effort was focused on a single goal — revenge upon House Argent for destroying his family.

He would not stop. He would never stop. Especially since now there were not only two Argents within his grasp, but one of them was the architect of the terrible destruction that started all this. It did not matter that the only his wolf, Black Jenny, and his daughter Malia Pyke remained by his side. All the Free Folk who had sailed with him had refused to travel back towards the Wall or into the domain of the Crows. 

That meant nothing. He’d do it alone with his bare hands if he had to.

Madness or dedication? It didn’t much matter. 

Malia came back through a thicket. If Black Jenny hadn’t turned her head at the girl’s approach, Peter would have missed it so good she was at moving stealthily. She kneeled down next to him. “I saw two men mounted horses in haste. From their conversation, they’re looking for someone.”

“Show me where they went.” 

The trio moved off through the underbrush, Peter gesturing for Malia to take the lead. It was lucky that she had such loyalty to him, for he had never played a large part in her life. Her mother, Corinne, had been an Ironborn captain. Back when the Hales ruled the land, the woman appeared twice a year in Beacon Hills with her small ship and a loyal crew. Corinne’s story had been that she traded for things that the people of the Iron Islands couldn’t make or grow for themselves, but Peter had seen right through that. She had been a spy, checking out the northern harbors for raids.

It made her more attractive. He had always liked dangerous women. 

Apparently, they hadn’t been as careful as they had needed to be, because the next time her ship was due to appear, it didn’t. Peter had been disappointed, but not very much. Corinne had been nothing more than a very entertaining diversion to him. He did not believe in true love nor would he ever waste time looking for it. Yet, it wasn’t until a few years later that their paths crossed once again, and to say that the Ironborn woman was not keen on meeting him again had been an understatement. Apparently, bearing the child of a Greenlander lordling was not a mark of honor among the despicable pirates that populated the Iron Islands. She had lost not only her reputation and her ship but also any chance she had of getting them back quickly.

Peter had given serious thought to sailing to the Iron Islands in order to retrieve his daughter. Corinne’s dismay and fury made him worry that perhaps she would treat the child poorly. However, he had also been clearly warned by Talia that she was tired of his adventures bringing shame upon the family name, especially after that imbroglio with Lady Cerwyn. Instead, he satisfied himself by sending an agent with letters and money for the child. 

In the end, it had been a good decision. When he needed her, she had been available and more than willing to help him, desperate to have family that didn’t despise her. She had managed to arrange the boat he needed, and she had both the temperament and the willingness to get her hands dirty. If she survived his war against the Argents, he might be willing to have her legitimized.

Now in the woods of the Gift, they came across the unmistakable scenes of a battle. Three dead men and a dead horse. Another horse wandered nearby. Malia identified the dead horse as the one belong to the knight — his long-lost bastard son.

None of the dead men were his son or his companion. These were scum; sell swords that would cut your throat if they thought it would be easier than doing any hard work. It made them perfect fodder for an Argent. He felt a toothy smile spread across his face. 

Malia looked up, questioning him silently. 

“Kate.” He glanced at the easy trail left through the underbrush. “Let’s keep moving.”

They moved carefully through the underbrush. No one challenged them; no one saw them. The knight and his companion were hunting Lady Katherine, and Lady Katherine and her men, in were hunting them. It was so perfect that Peter could taste it. He’d be upon his nemesis before she even realized that her doom had come.

He hushed Black Jenny’s warning growl as they came over the crest of a hill. It was a standoff between Kate and her men and someone must have been his son. Another girl was tied to a tree, and a thug was holding a knife to the Beacon Hills commoner who Peter had marked as his agent. Peter felt a small surge of satisfaction; the boy had ended up serving the Hales after all.

With gestures, Peter indicated that Black Jenny should go with Malia, and that Malia should wait a few minutes before she acted. He’d send his wolf and his daughter to support his son, while Peter himself would circle around and cut off Kate’s retreat. No one else must have the pleasure of that particular kill.

He hadn’t got far at all when Malia decided to act. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the flurry of movement as she threw one of her knives straight through the throat of the man holding her agent. Peter didn’t pay attention as the battle unfolded after that. Every single one of them could die as long as he got to the Lady Katherine first.

He emerged from behind a stand of trees in time to see Kate sink another arrow into Black Jenny, who fell to the ground feebly. He and the wolf had spent years together, but it did not stoke the fire of his need. He could find another wolf. Kate wasn’t sloppy, and she wouldn’t be easily surprised. She sensed him; she turned and flung her bow at him with one hand while she drew her knife the other. 

It should have been delicate fight, but Peter was far too close to his goal. She was right there before him. His veins burned with fire, and nothing mattered but that the long pain should end. She stepped forward like a professional and slashed down with the knife, but, in defiance of all common sense, Peter stepped into the blow. Her attack had been meant to gauge how he fought, to take his measure. His measure was that he would take a thousand cuts like that to get at her. The knife buried itself in the muscle of his shoulder; Peter could feel the point scrap against the bone. It was nothing compared to the depth of his rage.

Lady Katherine’s eyes widened at the move. It was something that people — rational people — did not do. They didn’t use their own body to trap their opponent’s weapon. “Hale,” she hissed, recognizing him.

“Yes.” Peter growled. The world had fallen away — now there was only her and him. Before she could react, before she could leave, before she could get away, he thrust the sword into her. Carefully, not into her heart. That would be too quick.

Another woman cried out to his left; he disregarded the noise as irrelevant. Slowly, he pushed the sword through her with what must have look like demonic strength. It had to be an agonizing way to go, yet she never stopped struggling. 

“For my family,” he whispered to her. “For me.”

The light left her eyes as slowly as her breaths soon became. Someone was crying over the death nearby, but Peter’s heart sang. Yet, the song was far too brief. He let the meat slide off his sword. His awareness of the outside world returned slowly. When the knife left his shoulder the blood flowing from the wound felt like a blessing.

With the hated Argent dead, Peter looked around, blinking. It occurred to him suddenly that there had been other people here fighting for their lives. They seemed unimportant. Black Jenny was dead, but she and Malia’s arrival had thrown the advantage in the fight to his son, and they had emerged victorious.

The knight in question had a cut across one cheek and rivulets of blood had stained his tunic, but the wounds themselves were slight. Ser Jackson had more of the blood of his enemies on him than his own. His daughter was mostly uninjured, though she was breathing heavily and bore the marks of those who had survived a close battle. Behind him, his agent — Peter thought his name was Scott, but who could be asked to remember at a time like this — comforted a crying woman. He was working to loosen the ropes that had bound her to the tree.

He narrowed his eyes. The woman was dark-haired, but she had the jaw. She had the eyes. And she had cried for Lady Katherine. “This must be Allison Argent.” Fate had given Peter another Argent to kill. He smiled and ignored the pain in his shoulder.

“You …” The knight studied him. “You’re my father. Peter Hale.”

“I am.” Peter took a step forward. His menace must have been apparent because Scott left off trying to get the ropes off of Allison, leaving her to untie herself, and stepped in front of her protectively. 

Scott picked up a sword. “Don’t come any closer.”

Peter made a mocking noise. “You barely know how to use that blade, boy. Don’t you remember that you belong to me? I’ve marked you. Now stand aside and let me have my prey.”

“I’m not yours.” The man’s right eye was swelled, nearly shut. “I’m never yours. Stay back.”

“If you’re not mine, then I have no use for you. As for her, she’s an Argent, and they will all die by my hand.” Peter sneered.

“She’s my betrothed,” Jackson called out from behind him.

“A political ploy that will fail. The House of Argent will never claim our land. Her death will be another blow to their vile ambitions.” With his wounded arm, Peter made dismissive gesture. The sight of an Argent’s blood running had soothed away all pain. “As will this ones.”

Scott stepped forward. “You’re mad.”

“Most likely.” Peter chuckled. “Now, if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll kill you, you gnat, and then take my time with her.” 

“She had nothing to do with the fire!” 

“Blood is blood.” 

Peter lunged, deciding to waste no more words. The Dornishman was barely trained, but he had learned enough somewhere to keep the blade out in front of him. It was fine; Peter had more than enough skill and time to get through him.

“Peter!” Malia called out. “What are you doing? You got who you came for.”

Peter heard someone moving behind him, and he could hear the doubt in his daughter’s voice. Children were treacherous. “Not yet. Not yet. Not until they’re all dead.”

“I’m sorry.” The knight’s voice called out. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“Malia, would you keep your brother occupied?”

“No.” Her voice was firm. 

Peter sighed and then lunged forward once again. The kennel master fell back over a root on the ground, proving that he wasn’t a swordsman. Before he could end it, the Argent lady, who had managed to free herself the rest of the way, struck him with her fist. Normally, such a blow wouldn’t have done much good with the inferno building in his heart, but she cleverly hit the spot where Lady Katherine had stabbed. It took the wind out of him for only a moment. 

“I’ll kill all of you!” Peter roared in frustration.

It was a promise and he meant it. He was dedicated to it. He would have, of course. He would have killed his own son, his own daughter, and this foolish idiot in front of him, because he needed to see all the Argents dead. 

But Fate has a way of turning on someone at the worst time. 

Bursting from the trees came the men of the Night’s Watch, black clad fools that soon outnumbered him. Peter perhaps had had a chance to defeat four opponents, but not with the aid an extra dozen soldiers — soldiers led by his nephew and some gangly young man he did not recognize.

“Peter!” Derek shouted in surprise when the Chief Steward finally comprehended what was going on. “What are you doing here?”

“Fixing your mistakes.” Peter spat, but he let himself be disarmed by the Watch. He would die if he fought at that moment, and he hadn’t survived pain and humiliation to die with the task undone. 

The young man with Derek ran to Lady Argent and Scott. 

Derek looked down at his wife’s body. His face showed no emotion as he looked at her, neither sadness nor triumph. His brows came together slightly. He looked up. 

“Bind them all.”


	16. Fire and Blood (Part 3 -- Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is an homage to Teen Wolf and Game of Thrones. I do not own them.

**Ser Denys Mallister**

The Great Hall of the Shadow Tower unsettled those who weren’t used to it. Half-carved from the rock of the black spire, yet with two walls and a roof of treated timbers, the room stretched far enough that a perceptive individual might noticed that it was curved. The floor itself was tilted at a significant angle. Thousands of years of use, however had worn the place smooth, so the veterans of the Night’s Watch had become used to dealing with both.

Thus Ser Denys Mallister, one of the oldest men on the Wall, sat slightly above and to the left of those bound over to him for judgment. Twenty years he had been Commander of the Shadow Tower, and he felt bitter about it and eager to see it done, like a miser at tax time. He plucked at a loose thread on his clothes; it took his gnarled fingers way too long to get it. He looked up at the people arrayed before him, sitting on chairs. All the tables had been cleared away; ever practical, the men of the Watch used this place as a mess on most days.

The commander cleared his throat. “Those are some stories you’ve told me. I’ve heard better, of course, but these made a summer night interesting.” He sighed. “If it were any other time, I’d ship the lot of you to Castle Black and let Lord Commander Mormont settle the matter, but he’s gone below the Wall.” He shook his head in rueful displeasure. “I know it had to be done, but it’s piss poor timing. We’ve things to do, so I don’t want this matter to linger here for his return. We’ll have trouble soon enough of our own doing.”

Derek Hale stood to his left, attempting to look stoic. The man had come to him from Castle Black five years ago, refusing to speak of the horrible crime of which he had been accused. He had proven himself clever, strong of will, and completely without any difficult pride that you would accept a lord to have. The commander had understood quite quickly that Hale had nothing to do with the death of his family. “I’m sorry —”

The elderly knight interrupted with a raised hand. “Hardly your fault, Hale. You didn’t ask for your past to visit you in such a spectacularly violent manner. To be honest, I’ve been on the wall for five winters, and this isn’t the first time someone’s history came to trouble them during their watch.”

He turned his attention to the prisoners. “But, mind you, my eye is not set to redress old wrongs. I need to find a quick resolution for this mess while still being fair.”

“Thank you.” Hale’s voice lacked inflection. His face to the uninitiated must have seemed stoic and cold, but the commander could tell it was discipline, not the absence of emotion. 

“This story is rooted in acts of murder and treachery that took place years ago in lands far from here. As far as I can tell, the one who started it is dead. May she face the Old Gods now. This day, I will speak only about what concerns the Watch and the crimes that occurred on its lands. Four of you came here claiming the protection of family, ignorant or disbelieving that the Men of the Night’s Watch have no families. Yet, when confronted with that fact, you still obeyed our instructions and caused no problems. The Lady Katherine Argent, on the other hand, came here with an intention to commit kidnapping and murder. But she and her accomplices were defeated in battle. The deaths of her accomplices are hereby ruled as self-defense.”

There’s not even a murmur in the room. No one missed the peculiar phrasing of the commander.

“Lady Allison Argent, please rise.” The woman had not been bound, so she did so. “I extend to you the same courtesy we extended to you before, which I know isn’t much, but our duties demand a great deal of our time and attention. As is our practice, we do not meddle in the politics of the Seven Kingdoms. We will not turn you over to the Lords of the North but neither will we protect you from them.”

“Thank you, Ser Mallister.” Allison curtsied as appropriate. “I would never think to involve the Watch in my family’s troubles. As much as I appreciate your hospitality, now that the threat to Ser Whittemore has been finished, I shall be leaving as soon as I can.”

Ser Denys allowed himself a small smile. He was indeed glad at the news, but he wouldn’t be rude enough to say it out loud. “In the matter of the death of Lady Katherine Argent, I must come to a different conclusion. She came here to hunt innocents, but she was hunted in return. That’s murder.”

Peter Hale spoke up from where he remained seated. Unlike the others, he was still bound. “Vengeance is mine by right.”

Mallister waved his hand in dismissal. “The Laws of Gods and Men disagree, but you no longer hold to those do you, wildling? I’d be lenient with you considering the magnitude of her crimes against House Hale, yet it doesn’t escape me that you have aided and abetted savages in getting south of the Wall. You have lived among them and become their ally. In doing that, you have made yourself our enemy.”

Peter smiled bitterly. “I’d do it all again, Ser Mallister.” His words dripped venom. It had surprised the elderly commander that Peter Hale hadn’t claimed the lordship of House Hale. The man was determined to act as if his killing of Lady Kathryn had been the most correct thing in the history world. The commander’s heart was inclined to agree, but the law was the law. 

“Warden, do you have anything to say?”

“My uncle …” Derek took a deep breath. “My uncle has done all he could to protect his family, though I strongly disagree with the actions he took to do so. No one is truly served by his vengeance but himself. Yet, he has been much sinned against.”

“That is truth” Mallister eyed Peter who eyed him right back. “Mercy and utility make strange bedfellows. I cannot come to a fair conclusion on what I should do, so I rule that Peter Hale shall be bound in the cells at the base of the Tower until Lord Command Mormont returns from beyond the Wall. He shall have the final say at Castle Black.” 

The man turned to Peter Hale’s daughter. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

The woman shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her. 

“You’re Ironborn.” Ser Denys was born in Seagard. Before taking the Black, he had been raised to hate those living on the Iron Islands. To him, it was an accusation. He didn’t think anyone in the room missed it.

“Everyone’s going to be from somewhere.” She was defiant in her tone.

He couldn’t help it; he chuckled. “True. Yet, you helped your father smuggle wildlings from beyond the wall to the lands of the south. Why should I overlook it?”

“She didn’t know what the plan was,” Peter spoke up in defense of this daughter. “She simply did as she was told.”

“Is that true?”

Malia Pyke stared at him without answering. To him, it bespoke loyalty. 

He turned to her cousin and raise one eyebrow as an unspoken question.

“She’s not hurt the Watch; she’s not committed murder. But …”

“She’ll come with me.” The squire spoke up suddenly, and quite out of place. “I’ll take her back to Beacon Hills.”

“And you can say that how?”

“He’s been named Castellan of Beacon Hills during the war,” Derek supplied helpfully. “I have no idea why Robb Stark would trust him—”

“Hey!” The squire had been standing forth bold as brass, but he suddenly squeaked in alarm.

“But the Lord of Winterfell has named him so what can we do?” Derek shrugged in mock concern.

Ser Mallister had been around long enough to know when two men had struck up a strong friendship, or perhaps more. He was saddened by its coming end, but it wasn’t his place to intervene. It was a pity; his Chief Steward could use some warmth in his life. 

Malia Pyke was staring at the squire, whose name was Stiles Stilinski, a son of a minor knight. “You’d want to take me back there?”

“It should have been your home.” Castellan Stilinski replied. “It should have been, and I can help make it that.”

“It should be our home, sister,” said Ser Jackson. 

Malia looked uncomfortable with the sentiments expressed. They were kind, and she would never have received anything like them in the Iron Islands. The woman looked toward Peter. The prisoner’s eyes were hooded, but he nodded his approval of the plan. She echoed his acceptance.

“Done! Warden, take your uncle to the cells. The rest of you, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come. Now go away.”

**Scott**

Scott wasn’t surprised when Derek Hale walked with them back to the inn where they had been staying. He led them out of the Great Hall, down the spiraling roadway and out the front gate. Scott walked in the back. He hadn’t been addressed or spoken as an individual since the hearing before Ser Denys had begun.

The moment they got back to the inn, Malia Pyke rounded on Stiles. She was insistent and irritated, though Scott didn’t think she meant Stiles any harm. “Why did you do that?”

“He was your father.”

Malia’s brow crinkled in on itself. Everyone else in the room stopped and listened.

“I would do anything for my father,” Stiles explained. “Anything. If someone told me that the only way to save him would be to run around our town and sacrifice virgins to the Old Gods, I’d do it. You were helping your father. I don’t think you deserve to be in prison.”

Jackson raised one eyebrow. “Not to be the person who spoils the milk, but she turned on her father.”

“Even fathers can lose their way.” It wasn’t Stiles who said that, instead it was Derek. “Sometimes, the best thing you can do for someone you love is to stop them.” Derek and Stiles shared a significant look.

Malia seemed uncomfortable. “I did what I thought was right.” She stormed away and sat down on a chair in a huff. 

Stiles followed her up. “You’ll come home with me?”

Malia nodded.

“I won’t.” Jackson said firmly. “I’ll be riding to Moat Cailin down the Kingsroad at tomorrow light. I’ve been too long away from this war, and it’s where my duty lies.” 

Derek turns his head to the side. “Then I will echo Ser Denys’s blessing.” He stepped forward and grasped forearms with Jackson. “When the war is over, if you have the time, please return. I would tell you of your family.” 

Jackson nodded once, silenced by emotion.

Derek turned to the Lady Allison. “And what will you do?” 

Lady Allison walked over to the boarded up windows that head south. “I have a choice to make. I _can_ go to Winterfell and turn myself over to the Starks.” 

Scott stepped forward. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Scott, that’s not how it works. I am of House Argent, and we serve House Lannister. The honorable thing to do if I returned to the Starks’ lands would be to turn myself over to the Lord of Winterfell. But …”

All the men in the room turned to look at her.

“I don’t want to sit this war out. I trust that my mother will be safe in Winterfell, yet my father and my cousins are down south. I want to return home and help out as I can.” She turned to Jackson. “I can’t marry you. Not while this war is going on. I am sorry.”

Jackson took her hand. “I accept that our betrothal is at an end.” It was a formal declaration. “I bear you no ill will.”

“Nor I, you.”

Stiles bit on his thumb. “So where will you go?”

“I’ll need to find a way to get back to the Westerlands.” Allison sounded confident about it, even as she sounded reluctant to part ways with them.

“Your best bet would be to head to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea. Ships from King’s Landing arrive there at least twice a month. It could take you to the capital.” Derek offered.

“Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence between the two. “If you would wait for but a day, you could take your aunt’s bones with you.” Derek offered at last.

“You would …?” Allison couldn’t finish that sentence. 

“I cared for her; I think we all know she did not care for me. She should lie with her family.”

Allison rubbed at her eyes. No matter what the woman had been, she and her niece had been close. “I would never … consent to what she did.”

Derek stiffened for a moment. “No, I don’t think you would. I heard my uncle call out that blood is blood. It is, but that’s not a curse. No one is doomed to be the worse of their family.”

“Well-l-l-l, there is not going to be a dry eye in the house at this rate,” interrupted Stiles. “Now that we have all decided where we are going — or not going, as in the case of our dour Chief Steward here, I say we make some dinner! Derek, would you like to stay?”

Derek, Jackson, and Allison chuckled. Derek sighed and opened his mouth to answer the question, but he never had the chance. 

“I haven’t.” Scott said loudly.

Stiles turned to him. “You haven’t what?”

“I haven’t decided where I’m going. Well, I mean, I haven’t told anyone where I’m going.”

His friend made a gesture at him as if that had already been decided. “What are you talking about? You’ll be coming home with me.”

“No. If she’ll have me, I’m going with Lady Allison.”

“What?” Stiles was a little staggered.

“Eastwatch is at the other end of the Wall, right? That’s three hundred miles. And then there’s more than two thousand miles by ship before she reaches King’s Landing. She’ll be traveling alone.”

Allison spoke up, a little annoyed. “I can take care of myself.”

“With all due respect, milady, I don’t think you can say that. You’re going to be riding through the Gift. The only settlement between here and Eastwatch is Castle Black. Any other time, I would agree that you don’t need my help. You’re a better horseman than me; you’re a better hunter than me. But, you’re a woman alone during a time of war. Those who don’t recognize you might be friendly, or they might see someone who is easy prey for your money or for something worse. Those who do recognize you might want to sell you to a northern lord.”

“And what type of sailing ships do you think ply the waters between the edge of the world and the capital? Do you think they’re always going to be the best sort of men? They’ll outnumber you. Do you plan not to sleep? You’ll be in danger every moment you are on that boat, and I know that I shouldn’t presume to say this to a lady, but you need someone to watch your back.” 

Scott took a deep breath at the end. The four of them had rode together. They had fought together, but he knows that they had made their choices. This was his choice.

“He’s right.” Derek reflected. “I am not fond of the idea of Ser Jackson riding alone, and he goes on the Kingsroad.”

Lady Allison frowned. “Were you even going to ask me?”

“No.” Scott replied. “It’s not like you had even dreamt of asking me, milady.” 

“Scott.” Stiles tugged at his sleeve. “A word upstairs?”

The friends trudged up to the second floor. 

“This isn’t about you feel for her, is it?” Stiles started off, bluntly. He would always start off bluntly.

“It’s about doing the right thing. She’s in danger.”

“We’re all in danger, Scott!”

Scott gave Stiles a disbelieve look. “You think you are in more danger than her? Traveling so far so near the lands of families that are at war with her family? You can’t see why I’m worried about her?”

Stiles looked away, clearly angry. He stood there, staring at a blank wall. Then, without turning around, he said, “But I need you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Stiles turned around. “Yes, I do.”

“You’re going to be in charge of the Hale lands. You’re going to be working with Maester Alan and collecting taxes and seeing to justice. What do you need me to do? Someone else can see to the horses.”

Stiles stepped back. “Are you jealous?”

“No.” Scott said it quickly. Then he took a few minutes to think about it. “No. No, I’m not. I don’t want to do what you do or what Jackson does or what Lady Allison does. No one noticed me at the trial. No one asked for me to speak. It was as if I were invisible. If terrible things like what we just went through are going to keep happening, I want to be more than just the boy who holds the horses. I want to do things that matter, and Lady Allison getting home safely matters.”

“Even if she doesn’t want you to go with her.”

“Even if.”

Stiles put one hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “But I do need you. How am I going to do this big thing without my best friend?”

“You got me to come with you because you said you can trust me to do the right thing. The right thing is for me to go with Allison.” 

Stiles squeezed his shoulder again. 

“Tell me it isn’t, and I’ll come home with you.”

Stiles opened his mouth and then closed it. “You come home as quick as you can.”

“As quick as I can.”

Scott felt the words settle in his gut, like a prophecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the first work in the series, which coincides with the first season of Game of Thrones. I wanted to catch up to Game of Thrones before Season 8 began -- Hahahahaha! -- but I'll start writing the story in time. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism from either fandom is more than welcome. I beg that typos, spelling errors, and grammar mistakes be brought to my attention; I'll try for there not to be any, but I know there will be.


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